The Rarest Faith V: Beginning to Believe
by Marguerite1
Summary: Fifth in the post-administration series. The year 2010.
1. 1

The Rarest Faith V: Beginning to Believe   
  
Classification: Post-administration, political. CJ/T and J/...well, you'll get it by the end of this section.   
Summary: 2010   
"When I was a boy I was told that anybody could become President; I'm beginning to believe it."  
--Clarence Darrow  
  
  
***   
January   
New York City   
***  
  
Jogging in Central Park at seven in the morning wasn't something C.J.  
particularly enjoyed - she was more of an indoor track kind of person, and her  
slender frame found the winter air shocking rather than invigorating - but Josh  
really wanted to do it. "Faster, C.J. - I need to work off some energy!" he  
half-shouted as they made their way past the stand of horse-drawn carriages in  
front of the Plaza.  
  
"You could just rent a damn bike or something. Your knees aren't what they used  
to be," C.J. called ahead to him after they were cut off by a teenager on  
rollerblades. "And it's cold."  
  
"Running will warm you up - c'mon, C.J., don't be a wet blanket." He was jogging  
in place, sweat already staining the front of his shirt. His ears and nose were  
bright pink, making him look like a tall, dimpled elf.  
  
"If I were a wet blanket, then I'd be frozen stiff. Come to think of it, that's  
exactly what I am." Grumbling, C.J. sprinted long enough to catch Josh, then  
settled down into his easy rhythm. "Listen, I'd be glad to come with you to the  
hospital. I know it's going to be difficult."  
  
"Nope." Hard-headed as ever. The day Amy was transferred from her London  
hospital to New York's Mount Sinai, Josh had cleared his calendar and started  
camping out in C.J.'s apartment until the doctors declared that Amy could have  
visitors. Today was that day, and Josh was going in the late afternoon. Abbey  
was there now. The advance team of one, talking to the doctors - or, more  
likely, grilling them - and seeing Amy first, so that Josh could be prepared for  
what was going to be an upsetting reunion.  
  
Sighing, C.J. looked back over her shoulder at the gables of the Plaza. Abbey  
was going to meet them at C.J.'s apartment with what Josh called the "Gynecology  
for Dummies" report. He was more nervous than he let on, so much so that Abbey  
was tempted to make him stay with her at the hotel.  
  
C.J. wanted to keep him close. Besides, he was a surprisingly low-maintenance  
houseguest, needing nothing more than the chance to make several phone calls a  
day to Sam, keeping abreast of the campaign. Josh talked to Donna every night,  
handing the phone over to C.J. at some point in mid-conversation.  
  
Donna seemed to be in surprisingly good spirits, despite this latest bump in her  
road with Josh. She channeled her public outrage by helping the candidates put  
women's health issues front and center. How she managed to keep comforting Josh  
while dealing with her private woes was something she didn't share with C.J.  
  
Every night, C.J. returned the phone to Josh, who went with it into the guest  
bedroom and quietly spoke to Donna for a few more minutes. Something in his tone  
was so intimate, so loving, that C.J. marveled at how this could be the same  
Josh Lyman who was, well, such a Josh Lyman.  
  
They stopped running. Josh leaned over, hands on his thighs, breathing heavily.  
"It's cold," he said.  
  
"Well, duh." C.J. put her arm around his shoulders. "C'mon, old man, let's get  
some coffee and walk back like human beings."  
  
"You wound me, C.J. To the quick." He straightened up, walking so close that his  
arm brushed hers. Something was off in the way he breathed, as if he were  
working to control the depth and speed.  
  
She often wondered if the aftereffects of the shooting were coming back to haunt  
him. The bullet had passed terrifyingly close to his heart, after all, and for  
years he'd had pain in his arm and back. Perhaps that had never gone away. She  
couldn't imagine that kind of pain, that kind of long-term suffering, and that  
train of thought brought her right back to Amy.  
  
Josh was glancing at her. "You okay?" he asked. "Looks as if you're zoning out a  
little."  
  
"Just thinking." She put her arm through his, tugging him close as they waited  
in line for coffee.  
  
"I know," he said softly. "I'm thinking, too. You want cream, right?" He fished  
around in the pocket of his sweats and handed money to the man behind the cart,  
then reached for the two steaming cups.  
  
"Thanks." C.J. blew across the top, watching the ripples move across the smooth  
liquid. She and Josh took their time going down Fifth Avenue, both of them lost  
in thought.  
  
"You don't even notice them, do you?" Josh asked, and C.J. had to rouse herself  
from her reverie.  
  
"Notice who?"  
  
"The...people." Josh gestured with the cup, spilling some on his hand, and he  
winced as he shook the hot drops off. "There've been, like twenty people who've  
said hello to you, and you just smile and say hello back. But I can tell that  
you don't really think about it."  
  
"You're right." He was, and she was surprised at his acuity. "It used to either  
thrill or annoy me, depending on what I was doing. But now it doesn't register."  
  
"That's interesting." Josh scanned the street, bouncing a little on the balls of  
his feet as they waited at a stop light. "You and Sam are two of the most famous  
people in the country right now. Matt's getting to be right up there, too. And  
then there are the Bartlets. All these famous people around me."  
  
C.J. snickered. "You have a fan club in D.C., all your very own. Or have they  
abandoned you for cuter pastures?"  
  
"It's not the same thing. Political groupies are a small, inbred bunch. The  
people you reach are...everyone."  
  
"Josh, if you have a point to make, then please make it before we get to 57th  
Street."  
  
It was his turn to laugh. "It just amuses me, that's all. People fawning all  
over you in the middle of the greatest city in the U.S., and you don't notice."  
  
She hadn't given it much thought. Just part of the job. Routine. "How's Nina  
doing with the publicity?"  
  
"Carol's got a handle on everything. All Nina has to do is smile and look  
charming. And , fortunately, that's not hard." He tossed his empty cup into a  
trash can. "We still have some mumblings and rumblings from both sides of the  
women's issues - she's not feminist enough, she's not traditional enough."  
  
"What are you going to do?" C.J. asked, finishing her coffee so that they could  
go into the restaurant. "I mean, about the image thing."  
  
Josh grimaced. "Jed told us to have Bruno Gianelli look the situation over."  
  
Glad that she no longer had anything in her mouth, C.J. started to laugh. "Man,  
forget fundraising. Just sell tickets to Nina kicking Bruno's ass. Has she met  
him?"  
  
"Uh, no. We thought it might be best if they went into this as absolute  
strangers. The idea is that once she gets an earful of Bruno, she'll be ready to  
listen to Toby. He's easier to take, by comparison."  
  
"You think? Here we are." They went into the crowded deli, where a sour-faced  
woman broke into an unexpected smile and waved her hands at C.J.  
  
"Ms. Cregg, come back here. I've got a place for you."  
  
"Tell me again why fame sucks?" Josh asked with a leer, and C.J. elbowed him in  
the ribs. They sat down, ordering huge breakfasts that would completely negate  
the effects of the morning's minimal exercise.  
  
A man at a nearby table turned over the pages of his paper, and C.J. caught a  
glimpse of this morning's article about Amy's return to the United States. She  
hadn't shown it to Josh, and she hoped he didn't see it. But he turned around to  
follow her line of sight, and the muscles in his jaw tightened visibly when his  
glance fell on the old photo of Amy, taken around the time of Leo's funeral.  
  
Josh turned back around and lowered his head. "I don't think I can talk  
anymore," he whispered.  
  
"I know. It's okay," C.J. assured him, reaching across the table to put her hand  
on top of his. She tried not to watch him as he picked at his food, and she had  
enough sense not to try to talk to him or change the subject that was on both of  
their minds. The waitress put their excess breakfast into aluminum containers,  
clucking her tongue at the "sad, skinny boy," and they walked quickly back to  
C.J.'s apartment.  
  
Hot showers and the morning news put them both into a more positive mood. Josh  
lounged on the sofa, writing illegible memos in a notebook. C.J. sat at the  
little desk and went over interview notes for later in the week. She was so  
engrossed in her work that the buzzer startled her. She pushed the black button,  
noticing that Josh was already on his feet, and moments later a Secret Service  
agent opened the door for Abbey before melting back into the decor of the  
hallway.  
  
She was dressed in jeans and a dark blue sweater, and she carried a  
leather-bound legal pad. C.J. hugged her, then brought her over to Josh. Abbey  
put her arms around him and held him close for several moments. "Let's sit  
down," she said, taking him by the hand and sitting next to him on the sofa.  
  
C.J. nodded toward her bedroom. "Should I...?"  
  
"No, no, she said she wants you to know everything."  
  
"How is she?" Josh asked, his voice quavering a little.  
  
Abbey smiled, although there was worry in her eyes. "She's doing better than I  
expected, actually. She's going to have more surgery next week, but she's been  
doing quite a bit of physical therapy in the meanwhile and it's looking good for  
her. Come sit with us, C.J., and I'll go over it with you."  
  
Of the many difficult things she had done in her life, few had been as awful as  
listening to Abbey describe the extent of Amy's injuries. Relatively little  
cutting had taken place, but the cuts that were made were deep and infection had  
begun to set in even as the medics came to take her to the hospital. Amy had  
developed an allergy to the antibiotic cream, which made the wounds even more  
painful, and which accounted for the long stay in London before she could be  
moved.  
  
Abbey drew pictures of what the area now looked like, and on top of those drew  
pictures of what the reconstruction could or could not do for Amy. C.J. bit her  
lips so hard that she almost drew blood, and her fingernails bit into the palms  
of her clenched hands. Josh's face was white.  
  
"She wanted to have children someday," he said. "Will that be safe?"  
  
"The infection didn't spread to her internal organs, so conception won't be an  
issue. Actually giving birth is going to depend on the amount of scarring and  
on how hard the scar tissue is. But it's still possible to have a Cesarean even  
if vaginal delivery proves to be more than she or the baby could handle."  
  
Josh tried to ask another question, but no sounds came out of his open mouth.  
  
Patting him on the knee, Abbey said, soothingly, "The human body has amazing  
powers of regeneration and rerouting. Especially when it comes to pleasure  
centers. Amy's a strong, healthy woman, Josh. She'll find ways."  
  
C.J. closed the binder. "Thank you for explaining this, Abbey. It's been hard,  
not...knowing."  
  
"She wanted you to know, especially, C.J.," Abbey said, "and she wants to see  
you in a couple of days, before the next surgery. She said she'd be fine with  
seeing Josh right away, since she knows he won't be able to spend much more time  
here. What do you say, Josh? You up to it?"  
  
He nodded. "Can you give me about ten minutes?"  
  
C.J. and Abbey watched him walk, a little unsteadily, to the bedroom. Abbey  
opened her arms to C.J., holding on to her while they waited for Josh to return.  
  
***  
  
He had come back out with red eyes, but his demeanor was quiet and composed.  
Abbey had offered to take him to the hospital, but Josh said he would probably  
need to walk home alone afterwards.  
  
The cab ride was a blur, a numbing fifteen minutes during which time he saw and  
heard nothing. Naima met him at the main entrance, hugged him, said how glad Amy  
would be to see him, but Josh could make only the most minimal of responses.  
Thinking, feeling - those would just break him down, and he refused to allow  
that.  
  
"Just a few minutes," Naima cautioned. "She's got jet lag on top of everything  
else, and her visit with Mrs. Bartlet almost wore her out." She opened the door  
to a private room. "It's Josh."  
  
"Good, send him in."  
  
"She still thinks she's my boss," Naima declared as she gave Josh a gentle push.  
"It's okay. It's okay."  
  
He hadn't brought flowers. He had meant to stop along the way, but--  
  
"Hey, J. Thanks for coming to see me." She was smiling. Her face was thin, and  
there were dark circles under her eyes, but she was smiling, so Josh couldn't  
help but smile back. Amy broke eye contact with him and turned to Naima. "Can  
you give us a few minutes?"  
  
"Absolutely." The door closed, and Josh was alone with his ex-wife.  
  
He didn't know what to say.  
  
"I don't know what to say," he whispered. He leaned on the bed rail with one  
hand and stroked Amy's cheek with the other.  
  
"Did Abbey give you the talk? Wait, don't answer that, you're blushing."  
  
"A little." He paused. "How do you feel?"  
  
"Much better. I haven't been running a temperature for days, so I'm starting to  
feel human again. I'm walking around, I'm exercising." She cocked her head to  
one side. "I'm seeing a therapist."  
  
"Yeah, Abbey said you were in physical therapy."  
  
"Not that kind of therapist, Josh," she said, almost laughing. "A, you know,  
therapist."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Wanna know why?" Amy teased.  
  
Teased. How did she do that? Josh tried to control his breathing. "I can  
imagine...well, I really can't imagine, but I can...understand...why..."  
  
"It gets better than that. Aside from the obvious, it seems that I also have -  
wait for it - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder." She reached up and tugged at the  
front of his shirt until he leaned over her. Her eyes were still wide, still  
dark, but with a haunted quality Josh knew all too well. "His and Hers PTSD,  
Josh."  
  
"We should've gotten monogrammed towels," he murmured. "That must have been what  
went wrong. We didn't have towels."  
  
"I don't think a well-stocked linen closet would've solved much of anything,"  
Amy said firmly. She let go of his shirt and lay back in the bed, her hands  
folded loosely over her abdomen. "I just thought it was funny. Not, you know, in  
the hilarious sense, but ironic. Because one of the things that drove me crazy  
about you was not knowing what to do when you had an attack."  
  
His heart in his throat, Josh put one hand on top of hers the way C.J. had done  
for him just a few hours earlier. "Do you know what to do when you have an  
attack?"  
  
Amy shrugged and looked away. "I'm learning."  
  
"I understand. And it does get...not easier, exactly, but manageable." He  
brought her hand to his lips and kissed it.  
  
"Josh..."  
  
"Ssh. Just listen for a minute, okay?" It felt weird, comforting her, but as  
strange as it was, it also felt right. "One of the reasons I got so screwed up  
is that I didn't talk to anyone. I didn't think they'd understand, because they  
didn't get shot." He hoped she could see the parallel. If not now, then perhaps  
later. But Amy looked alert as she met his eyes and waited for him to continue.  
"But just because it didn't happen to them didn't mean they wouldn't have tried  
to help me. I know what it feels like to live through something that terrifying  
over and over again. Please, don't make yourself go through those feelings."  
  
"I'm trying hard not to, Josh. And most days, I'm all right."  
  
"When you're not, though, I want you to call me."  
  
She shook her head, her dark hair falling into her face. "Donna would kill me."  
  
"How the hell do you...oh, never mind. Donna would not kill you. Or me. She went  
through it, too, in a lot of ways, and she'd be glad to help in any way she  
could."  
  
She would. One of the things Josh loved most about Donna was her boundless  
compassion. She'd been the one to insist that he go to New York as soon as  
possible, and when he'd asked her to come with him, she'd said that he needed  
this time - not just with Amy, but with C.J. and Abbey, who had such unique ways  
of helping people heal.  
  
Amy smiled brighter this time, some of her old sauciness returning. "She's a  
good person. I can see why you love her so much. Don't screw it up."  
  
"I won't! Why does everyone think I'm incapable of maintaining a relationship  
without causing irreperable damage?"  
  
"Because we know you. Yet we love you anyway. C'mere." She beckoned him down and  
kissed him. Not like before, not like the hunger of their early days or the fire  
of their post-argument lovemaking. Just sweet, and simple, and tender.  
  
She was dear to him, of course, and part of his soul would always grieve for  
what had happened to her. But his love for her had altered in the past two  
years, replaced by respect and awe for her incredible courage.  
  
"When you say you see why I love Donna so much," he said flippantly, trying to  
cover the extremes of emotion he was feeling, "you don't mean that you  
really...see why?"  
  
It took her a second to process Josh's cryptic question, then she laughed at  
him. Really laughed, hiccuping a little as she held hands with him. "Don't  
worry. She's straight."  
  
"That's what I thought about you, and look how wrong I was."  
  
"That's because you're you. I'm me, and I'm telling you she's straight."  
  
"Straight?"  
  
"As an arrow, Josh. You'll only have to worry about losing her to another man."  
  
"Thank God," Josh sighed. His eyes widened. "You know, it's very strange for me  
to be having this conversation with my ex-wife."  
  
Amy nodded, biting her lip for a few seconds before speaking again. "Probably.  
But then, nothing much about anyone's relationship with you can be categorized  
as anything but 'strange.'"  
  
"True." He had just begun to think about those he had loved and lost when Amy  
squeezed his hand.  
  
"There's no such thing as the Lyman Curse, Josh. Don't even think of blaming  
yourself for what happened to me. And don't use it as an excuse to back away  
from Donna again."  
  
He had to swallow hard before he could talk. "I'll never understand how you can  
be lying here, after all you've been through, and lecture me on my love life, or  
lack thereof."  
  
"I think you understand more than you realize." She tightened her grip on his  
hand. "I do love you, Josh. I want you to be happy. As happy as I am with Naima,  
especially now that we're safe and nothing can happen to Angela."  
  
"She has you to thank for that," Josh started, but Amy waved him to silence.  
  
"I'm not comfortable...with those words," she said softly. "I don't like to  
think of myself as a martyr." With a little grimace she settled back into the  
pillows. "I'm starting to fade. It's been a long day. It really was good to see  
you, Josh."  
  
"You, too." He leaned over, resting his cheek against hers. "You sure you don't  
want to marry me again?"  
  
"I'm trying to get well, Josh," Amy groaned, and that made them both laugh.  
"Give my love to C.J., and tell her to come see me in a couple of days. You -  
you go home to Donna before I kick your ass." She turned her head so she could  
kiss him on the cheek, then she closed her eyes and dropped off to sleep.  
  
Josh stood next to the bed, holding Amy's hand. He stayed like that for a long  
time, remembering the past, thinking of the present, and hoping for the future.  
When Naima came in a few minutes later and took his place, Josh felt a wave of  
relief crest over him, washing him clean, carrying him, like an awe-struck  
traveler, to a tantalizing new place.  
  
***  
  
Part Two   
  



	2. 2

***   
February   
Washington, D.C.   
***  
  
At a year and two months of age, Helen Seaborn was quite a handful. Sam claimed  
that it was caused by all the music she'd heard in utero. Nina was inclined  
toward the theory that listening to endless political rhetoric cooed over her  
cradle had made her hyperactive. "God knows it leaves me squirming," she said as  
she held her daughter on her lap and gently ran a brush through her curly black  
hair.  
  
Helen scowled and fidgeted, her blue eyes welling up with tears. Remembering  
what it was like to be in her own mother's lap, undergoing the same torture,  
Nina paused and sang a little song in Helen's ear. Helen grabbed the brush in  
her own chubby fist and made a few passes at her mother's hair, giggling. That  
task accomplished, she reached out toward the man sitting next to them.  
  
"Good luck," Toby said, indicating the last of the remaining waves of  
salt-and-pepper hair at the back of his head. "How good is her aim?"  
  
"Not so good," Nina mumbled around the bristles that were tickling her lips.  
"Okay, that's it for today. If your daddy wants you to grow your hair long  
because it's so pretty, then he gets to brush it out."  
  
Seemingly content with that remark, Helen snuggled between Nina and the side of  
the loveseat and curled up for a nap. Toby took the opportunity to hand Nina a  
cup of coffee, which she accepted with a grateful sigh.  
  
"Thanks for coming on such short notice," she said, "although I still don't know  
why everyone things I need a watchdog just because Sam and Josh are in  
California. What's the deal with this guy, that Sam thinks I need protection?"  
  
"Bruno Gianelli is...he has a reputation for being...difficult."  
  
"So does Josh."  
  
"Yes, and it's well-deserved, but..." Toby waved his hand in the air, drawing  
imaginary shapes. "There's one difference between Bruno and a piranha." He  
paused, consummate speechwriter that he was, then answered his own riddle. "A  
necktie."  
  
Nina, confused, blinked at him. "If he's that bad, then why is Sam consulting  
with him - and why is he coming to see me?"  
  
"Because he may be a barracuda, but he's an absolute genius at political  
strategy. After the M.S. scandal broke, and the entire world thought the Bartlet  
administration was going to go down in flames, Bruno managed to get us back on  
our feet and headed in the right direction. Not that we thought so at the time -  
believe me when I tell you that I wanted nothing more in the world than to see  
his body rotating on a spit over an open fire - but now, looking back on it,  
we'd have been dead in the water without him."  
  
She understood that part. What she didn't understand was why, since Sam was  
doing so well in the polls that he was practically a shoe-in for the nomination,  
they needed to consult this Gianelli guy in the first place.  
  
"You and I both know that Sam's going to be the nominee," Toby said as if  
reading her mind, "and that it doesn't seem as if we need any help. However, it  
doesn't hurt to ask, just in case we missed something."  
  
"Something about my image?" Nina asked, wrinkling her nose. "What's wrong with  
my image?"  
  
"I have no idea.We all think you're going to be an exceptional First Lady.  
However, the campaign managers think it might be a good idea to get input from  
someone who doesn't know you personally, just to make sure you get to be First  
Lady."  
  
The title still made her a little queasy. "I wish people would stop saying that.  
Some days I'm convinced that I'd just be an exceptional basket case."  
  
Toby nodded, rubbing his beard between thumb and forefinger. "Abbey's really  
sorry that she couldn't come up, but her schedule's pretty full for the next few  
months. Why she thought I'd be a good substitute, I can't imagine."  
  
"Oh, I understand exactly why." She knew that behind Toby's relaxed posture and  
veiled, smoky eyes was a mind every bit as keen as Sam's, if not more so, and  
the heart of a warrior. He was a panther masquerading as a housecat. He also had  
a deep and abiding affection for his friends, tucked carefully away behind a  
caustic façade. So, if Bruno Gianelli was going to be inclined to push Nina  
around, then Toby would be the perfect foil.  
  
Suddenly nervous, she took a few swipes at her own hair with Helen's brush and  
ran her fingertips under her eyes, checking for wayward mascara. The doorbell  
made her stiffen, her hands clutching the brush as if it were a lifeline. She  
heard a Secret Service agent ask a few questions, then looked up to see a dark,  
hawklike man looking down at her.  
  
"Don't get up," he said, standing in front of her with his hands clasped behind  
his back. "I know we don't have a lot of time, so why don't we get down to it?  
Can the child go away, please?"  
  
"She's sleeping," Nina said, half angry with the man's incredible rudeness and  
half angry with herself for being affected by it.  
  
"Whatever." He turned around and nodded at Toby. "You're here."  
  
"I am," Toby said mildly.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because Sam's out of town, and I felt like visiting." Although he hadn't moved,  
Nina got the impression that he was coiled for a strike.  
  
"Whatever," he said again. At last he seemed to remember his manners, and he  
held his hand out to Nina. "Bruno Gianelli."  
  
"Thank you for coming. Won't you have some coffee?" Shifting carefully so as not  
to wake Helen, Nina went into the kitchen and brought back a pot of coffee and a  
clean cup for Bruno. She set everything down on the table. "All right, then, Mr.  
Gianelli - what shall we talk about?"  
  
"You," he said, pouring coffee without changing the direction of his gaze. He  
took a seat in the chair next to Toby's. "I'm here to talk about you."  
  
"What do you need to know?" Nina asked, but Bruno waved the coffee at her.  
  
"Please - there's very little about you that I don't know. Born in Boston to an  
American father and British mother who died when you were in your teens. Spent  
summers studying with William Primrose in Utah. Attended Oberlin for your  
undergrad degree and Juilliard for your Master's, then went to England to study  
with Gwynne Edwards. You were the youngest member of the Philadelphia Orchestra,  
and the youngest woman ever to be an Assistant Principal of the American  
Symphony until being asked to take a leave of absence last month. In December,  
2007, you married Sam Seaborn, and then just one year later, you gave birth to a  
daughter, Helen." He paused. "She's a big girl for her age, isn't she?"  
  
Nina smiled at this first glimpse of warmth. "She's tall - my father's very  
tall, so I suppose--"  
  
"Let's make sure we have a statement from your physician, just in case someone  
decides the child was born eight months after the wedding or something. All we  
need is the gossip that you caught Sam the old-fashioned way."  
  
Momentarily stunned, Nina had to take a few breaths. "How...how dare you even  
think things like that?"  
  
"Nina," Bruno said, leaning toward her with his eyebrows raised, "how dare you  
not think about these things? Do you honestly believe that people won't look for  
a chink in the armor of this happy marriage? If my questions seem harsh, then  
please remember that it'll be harsher still coming from the mouths of some of  
the right-wing reporters waiting to trip you up, or from the insipid women's  
magazines who want to make a spectacle out of someone so young, pretty, and  
successful."  
  
She looked at Toby, whose face bore a studied expression of neutrality. Okay,  
save it, she told herself. Toby will jump in when he thinks the time is right.  
  
"Sam and Josh said you were an image expert," she said, hoping to distract Bruno  
from any further impertinence about Helen's conception. "What is it, exactly,  
that you want to do to mine?"  
  
"I want to figure out which way to go with you. You're quite the enigma, as  
political wives go. No politics in your family, no sudden surges of interest on  
your part. You're a successful career woman who took her husband's name, then  
surrendered her career for his. It's not going to play well, the way it's  
happened."  
  
"With whom?"  
  
"The ladies," Bruno said with a smug smile. "They want a role model, but your  
role is so damn confusing that they don't know what to make of you."  
  
Nina glanced at Toby, who made the merest shrug but said nothing.  
  
"What do you want me to do?" she asked.  
  
"Stand up."  
  
"I beg your pardon?"  
  
"Stand up." Bruno waved his finger in the air. "You're not very tall, but that's  
okay because Sam isn't, either. Don't wear shoes with more than one inch of  
heel. Dresses rather than suits, I think. More feminine."  
  
"Excuse me, but what the hell--"  
  
"As for the job thing, maybe if you had another baby - that's why you left the  
symphony, so you could concentrate on Helen and take care of yourself during the  
busy campaign season." Before Nina could do anything other than clench her  
teeth, Bruno shook his head. "No, I guess not."  
  
"I should say not!" Nina exclaimed.  
  
"March, April, May, June..." He ticked off the months on his fingers and  
frowned. "Even if you got pregnant now, you might not have the baby in time for  
the election, and it would be catastrophic if you went into labor late in the  
campaign and Sam had to miss an event. Besides, you might not have your figure  
back in time for the inauguration."  
  
"Heaven forbid," Toby mumbled into his beard. He shot a glance at Nina, his dark  
eyes shining with amusement.  
  
Son of a bitch, he was enjoying this.  
  
"Sam's and my plans for...for...procreation are none of your business," Nina  
growled. "What other plans do you have for me?"  
  
"Most of it's pretty simple - working with kids, getting musical instruments to  
children in poor districts and getting photo ops while you teach them to play."  
He made it sound disreputable. "Then we need to work on the physical stuff - not  
so much with the glamor, because women already resent you for taking Sam off the  
market. I'm thinking understated elegance. Like Jackie Kennedy."  
  
"Planning to bring pillbox hats back into style, Bruno?" Toby asked.  
  
"Don't mock me. We haven't had a lady as a First Lady in a while, and here we  
have one born and bred." He narrowed his eyes at her. "Nina's just a nickname.  
You should go by Jacqueline. It'll get shortened to Jackie in the press, and  
that way it won't look like you did it yourself."  
  
"Are you serious?" Nina asked incredulously. "I mean it - are you serious?"  
  
"It could give Sam a big bump in the polls, and softening you might help with  
Republican-leaning women who are sick of cows like May Schiller."  
  
"You're insane."  
  
"Listen, Nina, this whole freakshow of a campaign is insane. I have no doubt  
that Sam means well, and I'll definitely be voting for him. But he's got a gay  
running mate with a goddamn dress designer - and, by the way, could it be a  
worse stereotype? - for a boyfriend, and a campaign chairman who's a  
card-carrying nutjob whose wife left him for a woman. Then, to top it off, Sam  
has a wife who has her nose so far up in the air about keeping herself away from  
the uncleanliness of politics that she could very well cost him entire states!"  
  
Roused by the noise, Helen pulled herself upright and started to cry. Nina swept  
her up in her arms, stroking her hair and glaring at Bruno. "I'll give your  
suggestions the consideration they deserve," she said between clenched teeth.  
"Which is to say that I'll have dismissed them by the time you get your ass out  
of my home."  
  
"Have it your way," Bruno said as he rose and headed for the door. "Just, for  
the love of God, don't do anything that'll put Schiller back in the White House  
for another four years. The country can't take it."  
  
Nina watched as the Secret Service agent escorted Bruno out of the house and  
closed the door before discreetly fading into the kitchen. Still cradling Helen,  
she gave Toby an angry look. "Thanks so much for all your help."  
  
"Didn't think you needed any," he said softly. "You were doing pretty well,  
there."  
  
"Pillbox hats, my ass," she said, then grimaced. "I just said 'ass' twice in  
three minutes with my daughter right here."  
  
"She spent the weekend of your anniversary up at the farm with Jed and Abbey.  
You think she didn't hear 'ass' a few times?"  
  
"I suppose." Nina started to tremble, anger and misery at war inside her head.  
"Do you think any of what he said is true, Toby? Am I a liability to Sam?"  
  
"Sure you are," Toby said, setting his coffee cup down carefully and getting up  
from the chair. "Just as any strong-willed, intelligent woman would be to a  
politician. But it's time for the country to get over itself." He stood next to  
her and held his hands out. "Go for a walk, get some air. I'll take her."  
  
To Nina's surprise, Helen reached for Toby and let him carry her to the chair,  
her sobs subsiding to little hiccups as he put her on his lap and patted her  
back gingerly. "Go ahead. We can talk when you get back."  
  
Dawn.  
  
"That's why you're here, isn't it? They sent you to talk about my 'image,' and  
they wanted to soften me up by showing me the worst-case scenario."  
  
"Maybe," Toby said quietly. "Listen, can Helen have coffee?"  
  
"No!" Nina snatched a plastic cup from the table. "It's milk. She won't spill  
because the lid has a thing."  
  
"Ah. No caffeine for you, then," he said as Helen smiled up at him.  
  
"Okay." Nina ran her fingers through her hair for a moment. The gesture always  
made Sam laugh when he saw it, because Josh so often did the same thing when he  
was thinking. "Okay. You can talk to me when I get back, but I won't promise  
anything. And no coffee, no sugar, no anything for Helen."  
  
"Yes, ma'am."  
  
"Toby, are you listening to me?"  
  
"Absolutely..." Toby mumbled as he reached for a nearby shelf and pulled out a  
well-worn book. He waited until Nina had joined up her agent and left the house  
before picking up one of the soft cookies on the saucer, breaking it in half,  
and presenting it to Helen with exaggerated courtesy. "...not," he finished.  
Opening the book, he started to read aloud as Helen gnawed on her treat.  
"'Dorothy lived in the midst of the great Kansas prairies...'"  
  
***   
March   
***  
  
"It's all wrapped up?" Sam asked Ginger, who rolled her eyes at him.  
  
"Hand-delivered by courier. The House opens it tomorrow, and the debate's not  
anticipated to last longer than a day. Wrapped up," she said as she turned back  
to her computer screen.  
  
"Good." Sam smiled at the back of Ginger's head. Trying to accomplish anything  
on women's issues was tricky at the best of times, but now that he was the  
prohibitive favorite for the Democratic nomination he found that his hands were  
tied by accusations of electioneering. He'd been channeling some of his ideas  
through others in the Senate, and in the House as well, keeping his name off of  
legislation and keeping his profile as low as possible. It was driving him  
crazy, but it had to be done that way. Usually.  
  
This time, however, it was personal. He knew he was going to push for a  
resolution to get the United Nations to propose a ban on female genital  
mutilation on an international level from the moment he had seen C.J.'s news  
report. He didn't need C.J.'s prodding, Abbey's reminders, or Donna's outright  
demands. He was convinced long before he picked Josh up at the airport when he  
came back from New York, and that conviction was only strengthened when he went  
to visit Amy at the rehabilitation hospital.  
  
He was going to get this done, no matter what.  
  
"I have a meeting with Senator Skinner. Page me if you hear from Hernandez or  
McMillan, but otherwise just take a message and I'll get back with them."  
  
"Oh. Wait." Ginger reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a thin notebook.  
"Could you give this to Matt, to give to Gary? He's going to save me the blue  
dress from the Crisis Center benefit and let me wear it to the Cherry Blossom  
Ball - I marked it, here, with a post-it--"  
  
Sam, indignant, took two steps backward. "Ginger, I'm a United States Senator.  
Do you really think it's a good idea to take up my precious time shopping for  
evening wear for my assistant?"  
  
"You're playing basketball, Sam. It's not like a matter of life or death." She  
got up and tucked the notebook in Sam's breast pocket, then patted him on the  
chest. "There. It won't be so bad."  
  
He gave her a glum look. "You need to treat me with more...deference. That is,  
if you want to work in the White House someday."  
  
"Been there, done that, still have parking tickets from last time." She smiled  
at him. "Sam, believe me, I will defer to you in all matters of importance to  
the nation. But this is about the Cherry Blossom Ball, and I will not be  
denied."  
  
"Got it." Sam grinned at her, his mood improving by leaps and bounds. He was  
having a good day. He'd buy her the damn dress, and everything that went with  
it, just to see the look on her face. Before that, however, he'd kick Matt's ass  
at basketball, have lunch, and be back at the office in time for a series of  
interminable meetings about grain silos and import taxes on stupid things that  
no one wanted to buy, anyway.  
  
Vote for me, he thought, and I'll run through Congress on horseback with a  
scythe, cutting the chaff.  
  
There would be a coaching session on international economic policy via the  
internet while he had dinner at home with Nina and Helen, a few minutes to chat  
with Toby about recent polling data, and notes about three bills coming through  
the Senate in the next week.  
  
Following that, he decided, there would be sex.  
  
He stopped by Matt's office, waving his duffel bag in Donna's direction as she  
stood by a white board, farming out duties to assorted staffers. She grinned at  
him and gave him a thumbs-up as he passed.  
  
Matt met him at the door, his backpack slung over one shoulder. "You ready?"  
  
"More than ready. And you can get me up to speed on the Mitchell thing while we  
go." They each had Secret Service agents with them - Matt had received more than  
his fair share of what Josh called the "interesting" letters - and for that  
reason their entourage was bigger than they wanted when they tried to sneak away  
to play basketball and talk strategy. Nonetheless, they often managed to get in  
a few fast games before it was time to get ready for their respective afternoon  
tasks. Today Matt, as usual, beat Sam rather handily in the first game and then  
deliberately threw the second.  
  
There were so few indulgences in their lives, anymore.  
  
Sam made a truly impressive three-pointer at the beginning of the third game. As  
he dribbled the ball a few times, he saw his lead agent coming onto the court.  
"Oh, this can not be good," he mumbled, tossing the ball at Matt.  
  
"Sorry to interrupt, Senator, but there's something on television that you need  
to see."  
  
Sam grabbed a towel and mopped his forehead. "What's going on?"  
  
"It's a crawl on CNN, sir. It should play back in a moment." The men stared at  
the screen as sports scores went past. "That's it."  
  
Matt wrapped his towel around his neck as he read aloud. "'International groups  
decry U.S.-backed proposal to ban female circumcision, citing U.S. colonialism  
attempting to rob nations of their cultures.' Wow - that's unexpected."  
  
"Colonialism?" Sam snapped. "Colonialism is colonization. It's putting  
McDonald's on every street corner and ousting heads of state because we don't  
like them. This is about keeping young women and girls from being brutalized!"  
  
"I know, I know." Matt put his hand on Sam's arm. "Get back to the office and  
find out what the hell's happening. I'll go home and make some calls."  
  
"Yeah." Sam stalked to the showers, feeling as if there couldn't be enough soap  
in the world to wash him clean of the unadulterated anger. He dressed quickly,  
not bothering to comb his hair, and let the agents take him back to his office.  
  
Josh was already there, looking for all the world as if he'd been eating raw  
coffee beans by the handful. "How the hell did the wheels come off this thing,  
Sam? Didn't we talk to just about everyone, and didn't they all agree that this  
needs to happen?"  
  
"Yes. And sit down, for God's sake. You're making me nervous." Sam plopped down  
in his chair, looking with aggravation at the television. A journalist he'd  
never seen before was interviewing a pundit from some global organization no one  
had ever heard of.  
  
"The sickening tendency of the United States to put its bland stamp on native  
customs all over the world must be brought to a halt," said the pundit, his  
gold-rimmed glasses winking in the studio lights.  
  
"But there are those who say that this custom amounts to child abuse. What does  
your organization say about that claim?"  
  
"We don't have to say anything. Women and girls from countries where  
circumcision is the norm say it for us. For every American who says it's an  
outrage, there are ten women - who underwent the ritual themselves - who say  
that they would be outcasts in their own societies without it and that they'd  
find ways to do it themselves if it were banned. It's not for us to interfere."  
  
The journalist had the decency, unprofessional as it may have been, to look  
nauseated. "Your organization has filed a specific complaint against the authors  
of the legislation, Congresspersons Hernandez and McMillan, is that correct?"  
  
"They're just the fronts," said the interviewee. A graphic went up to say that  
his name was Allen Deskin. "The man behind the idea is Senator Sam Seaborn of  
California."  
  
"I'm breaking heads!" Josh cried. He reached for his cell phone and stormed out  
of the room. Sam, meanwhile, watched in fascination as the interview played out.  
Deskin was obviously someone's shill, parrotting carefully-rehearsed lines. It  
was annoying, to be sure, but it wasn't going to be a thing.  
  
At least, that's what he thought before Josh came back in a few minutes later.  
"We've got a thing," he breathed. "This guy, Deskin, he's nothing. No one knows  
anything about him - except that his son-in-law works for the President's Liason  
office." He paused. "Know what I think?"  
  
"That Schiller was waiting to drop this on me?"  
  
"Yes, but I think it's going to go farther than that." Josh's mind was obviously  
moving faster than his mouth, and he had to stop to take deep breaths. "Okay.  
You've got polling numbers so high you need to take Dramamine to look at them.  
You're obviously going to be the Democratic nominee for President - screw the  
primaries. No one's gonna run against you at that level. So let's say I work for  
Schiller, and I want to give him four more years in office. Short of having you  
killed, what do I do?"  
  
Sam's heart sank. "You have got to be kidding me."  
  
"Pick an issue that's tied closely to you, get ultra-liberals worked up over it,  
get women's groups divided over it, and then produce a third-party candidate  
who'll shave votes from just one party--"  
  
"--the Democrats," they finished together.  
  
Josh leaned against the bookcase while Sam stood, frowning, with his arms folded  
across his chest. "What do we do for damage control?" he asked.  
  
"I swear to God, I don't know." Josh's tone was rough, edgy. "I'm going to call  
C.J., get her opinion. And Toby. I am not going to let this yutz screw us." He  
sighed heavily and put his hands over his face. "Leo would've seen this coming a  
mile away. He'd never have let you get into a situation like this."  
  
"Hey. None of that." Groaning, Sam settled into the chair behind his desk.  
"Nobody thought of this. We talked to Toby, to Jed, to people from State, to  
delegates to the U.N. This one's not you."  
  
"That's not good enough," Josh said firmly. "It's my job to keep crap like this  
from happening. It's my job to plan far enough ahead, to look at all the angles.  
I figured it out fast enough once the pieces were put in front of me - the  
problem is that I didn't see the pieces until they were dropped on my head."  
  
"It happens," Sam said softly. "We'll fix it."  
  
"There shouldn't be anything to fix. It shouldn't have happened in the first  
place. C'mon, Sam, you know my head's been everywhere but the game the last few  
months. You should fire my ass, you know."  
  
Oh, God, please, not a full-blown Josh Lyman self-loathing session. "I'm not  
going to do that."  
  
"Why the hell not? If I were you, I'd fire me."  
  
"Well, it's lucky for both of us that you're not me. Because I absolutely  
cannot, will not, do this without you at the wheel. It's a screwup, Josh, and  
it's too bad because this project is something we both believe in. But we will  
find a way to hit whatever Schiller's throwing at us out of the ballpark and get  
the proposal passed in the bargain."  
  
Josh regarded him with bleary eyes. "How?"  
  
"Same way I get everything else done," Sam said, getting up and putting his hand  
on Josh's shoulder.  
  
"How?" Josh repeated.  
  
"I tell my best friend about it, let him think it through, and then take his  
advice."  
  
Josh, who had never been able to receive a compliment without coming completely  
unhinged, looked down and away for a moment. Nodding, he walked to the door that  
connected Sam's office to his, but before he left the room he turned around and  
looked at Sam, the beginnings of a smile curving his lips as he spoke. "I won't  
let you down."  
  
The door closed, and through the space at the bottom Sam could see the lights  
going on. Sam smiled. Nothing made him happier than a good metaphor.  
  
"You never do," Sam whispered. "You never do."  
  
***   
Part Three   
  



	3. 3

***   
April   
Manchester   
***  
  
C.J. wrapped the blanket tighter around her bare shoulders as she read, sneaking  
an occasional glance at Toby. He was either napping beside her on the hearth rug  
or playing possum.  
  
He opened one eye. Possum. "You're not going over this all again, are you? It's  
a dead end, C.J."  
  
"The dead ends have dead ends that have dead ends so dead that they can't have a  
wake because everything's dead." She held her hands out toward the fire. "It's  
freezing. How the hell can it be so cold in April?"  
  
"Just lucky, I guess." Toby sat up and ran a hand through C.J.'s disheveled  
hair. "This will be the last fire of the season. We really should enjoy it."  
  
Leaning into the caress, C.J. smiled. "I've enjoyed it twice already."  
  
Toby always looked so damn smug after they made love, and tonight was no  
exception. He waggled his eyebrows at her. "I say we go for three."  
  
"Later. I'm still going over the R.N.C. expense reports." She shuffled the  
papers, wishing she had her glasses but unwilling to get up from the warmth of  
this spot, unwilling to remove Toby's fingers from her back.  
  
"I really don't think you'll find anything that leads directly to the  
Internationalist Party. They're stupid, but they're not that stupid. It'll be  
buried somewhere, if it's in there at all, but it's more likely that a few deep  
pockets put Jeffrey Sawyer in the running."  
  
C.J. hated Jeffrey Sawyer almost as much as she hated Gregory Schiller. She felt  
her heart increasing to an angry tempo at the very thought of this kid, barely  
old enough to run, who was siphoning votes from Democrats at an alarming rate by  
playing to the ultra-liberals unhappy with Matt Skinner's moderate views.  
  
"His numbers don't look good," Toby whispered into her ear, followed by an  
enticement that made her shudder.  
  
"Down into the low forties - almost a sixteen-point drop. Schiller's  
pulling...oh, God, Toby, please don't do that...almost even, without moving a  
notch. It's Sawyer who's going to kick our asses."  
  
"It won't last, C.J. These guys never do. He's just a good-looking kid willing  
to spout off whatever he's fed. He has even less gray matter than Robert  
Ritchie, and I really didn't believe that was possible."  
  
True. Young Mr. Sawyer, a small-town public defender who'd inherited the job  
from his late father, had an alarming array of malapropisms at his beck and  
call. Still, even as a few older Democrats started to wise up, the numbers in  
the 18-21 demographic - both male and female - were skewed toward this upstart.  
  
"At least Schiller's not gaining," C.J. said softly. "But it doesn't matter.  
Even if he doesn't gain, Sam's going to lose." And that was the one thing she  
had never thought possible. She called in favors from every muckraker she'd ever  
met. Every day she'd get some leads, and every night Josh or Donna would call  
back to say they'd gone nowhere.  
  
"Makes you wonder why they're allowed to vote," Josh had groused during C.J.'s  
recent visit to Washington, only to be elbowed by Donna as she reminded him that  
the vast majority of college-age citizens were far too intelligent to be duped  
by this slick young man and his canned rhetoric.  
  
The upper management at NBC threw every available obstacle into her path. She  
was an interviewer, not a reporter. They were short-staffed. She'd already  
slapped the conservatives around with the "Hell on Earth" interview and the  
exposure of the C.A.P. It was time for her to do something else, something  
like...interviewing the oversexed cook Leo used to love watching.  
  
Something else. That's what she longed to do. Something...else.  
  
Toby began to plant wet kisses on her shoulder, and his hands slid under the  
blankets and down. Down. Ooh. So much for paperwork, not when he was...  
  
C.J. made a point of only taking Xeroxes to Manchester. After all, she was only  
human.  
  
Her breathing quickened, and she felt blood pounding in her ears. Ringing.  
Ringing. Oh, for God's sake, not the phone. Please, please, not the  
phone...please, Toby...don't answer...let the machine...get it...  
  
"Toby, it's Josh. Where the hell are you?"  
  
"Die screaming," Toby groaned, his voice so full of sex that C.J. was glad they  
weren't on speakerphone. But the moment was well and truly gone, and Toby  
reached for the phone with a higher level of grouchiness than normal. "I'm here,  
Josh," he said, scrabbling for the speaker control. "Wait a second. Okay, you're  
on."  
  
"Is someone there with you?"  
  
"Yes, it's me," C.J. called out, croaking a little after all the vocalizations  
from earlier in the evening.  
  
"You sound hoarse - are you getting a sore throat?"  
  
"Not yet," Toby said dryly, and C.J. started to laugh so hard that she almost  
choked. "What do you have for us?"  
  
There was a pause, during which C.J. imagined a small light bulb going off over  
Josh's head. Then she remembered that this was Josh at his most politically  
focused, his most driven. His ability to decipher subtleties, never his best  
feature, was surely deactivated.  
  
Poor Donna.  
  
"You'll love this. Matt's been getting phone calls from people pretty high up in  
the Republican Party - please come back, we love you, we need you, you don't  
want to work with Seaborn. So Matt was curious and he went to a meeting. At the  
White House, no less."  
  
"Really?" Toby's eyes opened wider. "What was it about?"  
  
"Turns out that they wanted Matt to run for Vice-President."  
  
"He's already running...oh, my God," C.J. sputtered. "They're going to replace  
the Vice-President. That's unheard of! Well, I mean, we thought about it, but--"  
  
"Exactly." Josh chuckled. "Anyway, Matt told them where to stick their offer. He  
said he wasn't willing to be the token gay guy on the ticket, that they'd never  
be able to offer him the opportunity Sam had."  
  
Toby grinned. "How did Schiller take that?"  
  
"Not well. He shouted something about not allowing Sam Seaborn within a hundred  
yards of the Oval Office, whereupon Matt reminded him that Sam used to work a  
lot closer than that. I think his credentials may be pulled for a while."  
  
"I'd have paid, you know, money to see that meeting," Toby said. "Anything yet  
on the Schiller-Sawyer connection?"  
  
"I'm not finding anything. There are some people I'm going to call, and Donna's  
got a few ideas, too."  
  
"Is she there? I'd love to talk to her," C.J. said as smoothly as possible.  
Mostly she just wanted to know if Donna was at Josh's apartment at this ungodly  
hour.  
  
"It's the middle of the night!" Josh squeaked. "Of course she's not with me!"  
  
Toby rolled his eyes at C.J. and mouthed the word "putz."  
  
"Anyway," Josh continued blithely, "Matt just called me and I wanted to pass  
this along to you. When are you going home, C.J.?"  
  
"Monday," she sighed. She didn't relish the prospect. "But I'm hoping to get a  
lot done by then."  
  
"Excellent. Night, guys."  
  
"Night, Josh." Toby ended the call and turned to C.J. with a delightfully feral  
look in his dark eyes. He looked so good in the amber firelight, so vital. So  
sexy, even after all these years, and C.J. felt the liquid warmth pooling inside  
her again as he crept toward her, smiling lasciviously.  
  
"Still want to go for three?" C.J. asked coyly.  
  
"Nuh uh," was his muffled reply as he lifted her hair and kissed each vertebra  
in her neck. "Five sounds like a better number for you."  
  
C.J. tackled him, turning him over so that she was on top. She never took her  
eyes from his as she reached out with her long fingers, grabbed the phone cord,  
and yanked it out of the wall.  
  
***   
July   
Dallas   
***  
  
"We couldn't have the convention someplace cooler? Like Hell, for instance?"  
  
Even in the limousine with the air conditioning on full blast, it was incredibly  
hot. Josh felt sweat trickling down his back, down his chest, under his arms,  
across his upper lip. He stared glumly at Donna, whose second coat of powder for  
the day was starting to clump in the curves of her neck and elbows.  
  
"It'll cool down in a while," she said.  
  
"When? December?"  
  
"Josh. Please." She sat forward on the leather seat and fanned the back of her  
neck with a folder.  
  
Squirming only made the sweat spread, so Josh tried to sit still. "It's a lock.  
I mean, he has all but about six delegates. This is going to be the easiest  
convention in the history of politics." He paused, running his finger across his  
lip and wiping the perspiration off on his pants leg. "So why do I feel like  
there are a hundred Cossacks marching through my chest?"  
  
"Because tonight it's for real."  
  
"Donna, we spent six months campaigning. It's been real for a long, long time."  
  
"True." She didn't seem interested in the verbal sparring. A welcome blast of  
cold air went through the passenger area, making them both sigh with relief.  
"We're here."  
  
The hotel was a welcome change from the Convention Center. Josh had practically  
lived at the Democratic National Convention - small, stuffy room after small,  
stuffy room after small, stuffy room, talking to delegates, talking to platform  
committees, talking to campaign staff. But tonight he'd be on his way to the  
vast auditorium to watch the first part of his dream come true.  
  
In a few hours, Sam Seaborn would be the official Democratic Party candidate of  
the 2010 Presidential Election.  
  
The thought made Josh sweat even harder.  
  
"Your tux came back from the cleaners this afternoon," Donna said, looking at  
him with some concern as he got his damp, clammy body out of the car. "And for  
God's sake, take a shower. You're way past ripe."  
  
He looked at her as she walked ahead of him into the lobby. Just a little damp  
around the edges, but delectable. And untouchable.  
  
Still.  
  
Watching their steps had become a full-time occupation. Nothing could happen  
during the campaign, especially when Jeffrey Sawyer had made his first splashes.  
Nothing could happen on the long bus trips, because of the media, nor anywhere a  
camera might be. And since they spent most of their time with Sam - who spent  
most of his time in front of cameras - there had been no prayer of taking their  
newly-mended friendship to the next level.  
  
Then there was the other factor, the one Donna quietly called "Amy's ghost,"  
even though Amy was very much alive and had returned to Africa to work with  
Maendeleo Ya Wanawake. Josh didn't know what he could do about the specter,  
other than to be respectful of Donna's hesitation - whether or not it drove him  
crazy.  
  
And here, in Dallas, ensconced in the cozy little St. Germain Hotel, with only  
their own entourage to worry about, they had found themselves with literally no  
time whatsoever. In the week they'd been in Dallas, Josh had managed to have  
only three meals with Donna, and one of them was standing up in a hallway  
outside a women's caucus meeting. The ride from the Convention Center to the  
hotel was the longest time he'd spent with her in a single location, and all  
she'd had to say was that he was "past ripe."  
  
Whoever said that sex and politics went together should be taken out and  
executed.  
  
Josh watched glumly as Donna went to her room, which was at the other end of the  
hall from his and which adjoined Matt's. Grim irony, thought Josh, recalling all  
the wasted trips when he'd used the connecting door to Donna's room as a means  
to bellow late-night orders which she'd summarily ignored.  
  
This line of thinking was getting him nowhere. He shook it off and meandered  
into his own room, which was a shambles of paper, discarded clothing, and more  
paper. Taking a shower alleviated his sour mood a little, as did the phone  
message telling him that Toby had finally arrived.  
  
At least they were all going to be together for the big event. C.J. had been  
forbidden to cover the convention as a journalist because of her close  
relationship with Sam, so she'd come as a private citizen and was enjoying the  
hell out of being asked to sit in on all sorts of policy meetings. Matt was  
keeping a relatively low profile, working quietly with Donna as plank after  
plank of the platform fell into place. All working toward this night.  
  
Nina had spent her week safely ensconced with Helen in what was usually the  
bridal suite. "I love being trotted out for state occasions," she said as she  
joined Josh in the lobby. She wore a stunning, simple gown of dark purple silk,  
and Helen's frillier little-girl dress was pale lilac. The resemblance between  
mother and daughter was growing more pronounced all the time, except that Helen  
had her father's intense blue eyes. Photographers couldn't get enough of them,  
and Carol made sure that every photo op made the best of Nina's quiet grace and  
Helen's arresting beauty.  
  
Mother and daughter posed for a couple of pictures with campaign staffers. Josh  
admired Nina for making the best of the impossible conundrum: her love of  
privacy versus the need to be in the public eye for Sam's sake. Concern for  
Helen was the couple's top priority, and so far the press had been very  
respectful of the boundaries placed around a little girl about to become famous  
because of her father.  
  
The last cameras were put away and the staffers went ahead to the Convention  
Center. "Nervous?" Josh asked Nina, as he fiddled with his tie for the tenth  
time.  
  
Nina walked over and straightened the knot, looking up at Josh with the same  
rapturous expression she'd had on her wedding day. Her brown eyes sparkled as  
she patted him on the chest. "I don't have to do anything but stand there and  
wave. Sam's got the hard part."  
  
"He is going to kick ass and take names," Josh declared. "But first he needs to  
come downstairs so he doesn't miss the limo."  
  
"He's just putting the finishing touches on his speech." She looked over Josh's  
shoulder and waved.  
  
Josh turned around just in time to see C.J. and Toby emerge from the elevator,  
holding hands and whispering to one another. Like teenagers. Sickening.  
  
He was so jealous he could vomit.  
  
C.J. wore her Emmy gown, the one that had caused the fracas between Toby and  
Joan Rivers. "For luck," she said as she twirled in front of Helen to make her  
laugh. Toby looked at C.J. as if he could eat her alive.  
  
Scratch that thought.  
  
Matt arrived next, holding the door for Donna. She wore a simple black dress,  
nothing fancy, but Josh thought she was the most elegant woman in the very,  
very fine group. He caught her eye and smiled at her, which made her smile back.  
  
A flurry of dark-suited men heralded Sam's arrival. He wasn't somber, exactly,  
but he had...what was the word, the one Toby loved so much?  
  
Gravitas. Yes. And he carried himself like a man who could bear the weight of  
the world upon his shoulders as easily as the little girl he picked up and held  
in his arms as he led the procession to the limousines.  
  
"Abbey called," Nina said as she waited for an agent to open the door. "She  
asked if any of us had eaten anything in the last twelve hours." The collective  
silence gave her the answer. "Just thought I'd bring it up."  
  
Josh climbed into the car with Donna, Toby, and C.J., while Matt went with the  
Seaborns. "Where's Gary?" Toby asked.  
  
Donna's expression darkened. "He didn't come. He was afraid he'd be a  
distraction, especially here in the middle of the Bible Belt."  
  
"He's right, but it sucks," C.J. said. "So all the women are wearing his dresses  
- even Helen. He's here, symbolically."  
  
"He should be here in person," Josh sighed. "I want Sam to be President more  
than I want to take my next breath, but the cost..." He glanced at Donna, who  
blushed and looked out the window.  
  
"There is a cost," Toby agreed. "And a toll that it takes on the leaders and  
their families. Sometimes we don't even see it until it's too late." He folded  
his hands in his lap, and Josh saw a little tremor.  
  
"How's he doing?" he whispered, but Toby just shrugged and sat back further in  
his seat, shaking his head as if saying he didn't want to talk about it, not  
now. Donna's cool fingers slipped into Josh's, and he held on tightly.  
  
They'd asked Jed to be with them, of course, but Abbey said he wasn't feeling  
well. No one had the heart to ask if it had been an episode of M.S. or simply a  
sign of encroaching old age. Either way, it cast a pall on the happiness they  
were all feeling.  
  
Their arrival at the Convention Center set off an explosion of flashes, cameras  
whirring so loudly that they sounded like helicopters landing in their midst.  
Sam smiled, Nina beamed. Helen toddled in, holding C.J.'s hand on one side and  
Toby's on the other. Toby looked like Silas Marner in a tux. Matt walked in  
alone, his soft eyes full of a mixture of awe and sadness, with Donna right  
behind him. Josh, bringing up the rear, tried not to flinch at the noises and  
lights.  
  
The whole night was about noises and lights. About impassioned delegates  
speaking up for Sam in loud, happy voices. About glitter and balloons and  
cheers, about hope. About Sam, his dearest friend in all the world, taking his  
place on the podium and offering himself as the people's servant.  
  
Josh would have to read the speech later, because now he was swept up in the  
moment itself. This was where Sam was born to be, and Josh was born to put him  
here. He was surprised to find tears welling up in his eyes, and for a moment he  
wondered if he was just being weak. But then he turned his head and saw Toby  
surreptitiously dabbing his eyes while C.J.'s shoulders shook with sobs. Beside  
them, Donna stood with her fingers over her mouth as a lone tear made its way  
down her cheek.  
  
Josh held his arms open and she fell into them, sobbing against his chest. "I  
love him so much," she whispered. "Oh, my God, Josh. I love him so much."  
  
"I know," he said, kissing the top of her head and rocking her back and forth.  
"I do, too."  
  
There would be art, of course, showing the former White House Deputy Chief of  
Staff with his cheek pillowed in his former assistant's hair. Josh was  
peripherally aware that he should give a damn about it. In reality, though,  
nothing mattered but Sam's voice, strong and clear, as he proudly accepted his  
party's nomination for President of the United States.  
  
***  
  
It had, Sam thought, been surprisingly easy. When you got right down to it, all  
he had to do was what he'd done a thousand times before - speak from the heart.  
  
He looked around the dining room at the St. Germain, where his exhausted but  
exhilarated campaign staff enjoyed food and champagne and one another's company.  
It was real. It had happened, and he'd accepted, and raised his hand with Matt's  
high in the air while thousands upon thousands of people cheered.  
  
Sure, his polling numbers were still lower than he'd like, with Jeffrey Sawyer -  
and probably the sitting President - to blame. But he knew that eventually the  
message would be too good for people to ignore. It had to be. It was what he'd  
spent his entire adult life crafting. He could, and would, win this election.  
  
Nina returned after going upstairs to check on Helen again. She slipped her arm  
around Sam's waist and hugged him. Here was a First Lady to remake the mold of  
First Ladies, Sam thought. She'd have Carol on her staff, and...  
  
Staff.  
  
Holy hell, he'd never talked about a senior staff with these people. It had  
seemed like a sure jinx at first, and then later he'd been too busy to actually  
do anything about it. Now, surrounded by so many people who loved and believed  
in him, he knew that he could never accomplish anything without them.  
  
He kissed Nina, gaining a round of applause and some catcalls, then went to the  
middle of the room and tapped a spoon on his champagne glass. "Could I get  
everyone's attention, please?"  
  
The room fell silent.  
  
"It occurs to me that I've just been assuming you'll all come work for me in the  
White House," he said as preamble, and everyone laughed. "But since we're all  
here, I'd like to ask you, formally, to take positions as members of the senior  
staff." He turned first to C.J. "I can't offer you a couple of million a year in  
salary, a Park Avenue apartment, or even an office that doesn't leak."  
  
She leaned against Toby, whose arm was around her waist, holding her fast. Her  
smile was brilliant, one he hadn't seen in far too long. "I don't have to fall  
into a swimming pool again, do I?"  
  
How he admired her, this bright, shimmering woman with a mind as complex and  
astonishing as the exquisite ruby ring that twinkled on her right hand. "Not  
unless I rip up the floor in the Press Room," he quipped, bringing back memories  
of days gone by. "Name the job, C.J., and it's yours."  
  
"I'd like to be Media Director, then. I don't know if I have Press Secretary in  
me, but I know someone who does. Give Andrew Wang a call. He's been sitting in  
for me on "Practical Politics" while Sarah is getting experience as a director,  
and he's good, Sam. He's incredibly good."  
  
Sam started to ask Ginger to take notes, but she was already scribbling in a  
pad. He looked at her, waiting until she stopped writing so he could catch her  
eye. "You didn't have much of an office, last time. Would you be willing...?"  
  
Her expression was priceless when she finally realized that Sam was talking  
about the desk right outside the Oval Office. Mrs. Landingham's, then Debbie  
Fiderer's. "Administrative Assistant to the President?" she breathed, looking as  
if she were about to faint. "Well, I survived eight years of Toby - the last  
four without you. How hard could it be?"  
  
"That's the spirit!" Sam declared, enjoying the look of mock injury on Toby's  
face. "And for Chief of Staff I was thinking about Bruno Gianelli. Don't you  
think that's a great idea?"  
  
Boos and laughter rang through the room. Nina scowled at Sam, then burst into a  
fit of giggles that left her teary-eyed and breathless.  
  
That left Sam wanting to...  
  
No, not in the middle of putting a senior staff together.  
  
He searched the room for Josh, who was standing off to one side with a glass of  
champagne in his hand. "You came and got me," Sam said gently. "None of this  
would have happened if you hadn't turned up at Gage Whitney, soaking wet and  
pointing out your incredibly bad poker face."  
  
Josh raised the glass to Sam. His lips were pressed tightly together as if to  
rein in some overwhelming emotion, but he managed to twitch the corners upward.  
  
"Jed told me his criteria for choosing a Chief of Staff. He said it had to be my  
best friend, someone who loved my enough to tell me when I was screwing up.  
Someone smarter than I am. Someone I'd trust with my life." Sam walked over to  
Josh and stood in front of him, his hand outstretched. "I didn't ask, formally,  
last time. But now I will - I'd like you to be the White House Chief of Staff."  
  
Clasping Sam's hand, Josh finally smiled, his dimples deepening and his dark  
eyes flashing with delight. "I serve at the pleasure of the President," he  
murmured.  
  
No one spoke. No one moved. At last, when Josh finally released Sam's hand,  
Nina's voice broke the stillness. "You got a more formal proposal than I did,"  
she said, making everyone laugh and relax after the emotion of the moment.  
  
"And I actually have to be, you know, elected," Sam reminded everyone.  
  
"Not a problem." It was the old Josh, the brash, self-assured, extraordinary  
Josh who had turned the Bartlet campaign around in 1998 and again in 2002. And  
if Josh said it was not a problem, then Sam was inclined to believe him.  
  
He turned to Toby. Toby, the most unlikely of mentors, the most loyal of  
friends. "Would you consider..." he began, but Toby shook his head.  
  
"It's...it's an honor." Toby held C.J. tighter, and she rested her head on his  
shoulder. "And I can't begin to tell you what it means to me. But Jed...he's..."  
  
Sam's throat tightened.  
  
Toby cleared his throat, looking at Sam through heavy-lidded eyes. "There've  
been problems. Abbey's not certain yet if it's M.S., or just him getting older,  
but...I'm not sure how much time he has left. How much good time."  
  
"I understand," Sam whispered. It was a double disappointment, a double  
heartache.  
  
"That doesn't mean," Toby added, "that I won't be checking every word that comes  
out of the Communications Department and giving you constant feedback. And you  
know that any time you need help with your writing..."  
  
"I can come to you."  
  
"You'd better. And you'd also better get all these people to bed, because  
there's a campaign to get on the road tomorrow." Toby released C.J. and waved  
his arms at the crowd. "Go! Get the last four hours of continuous sleep you'll  
have for the next four years!"  
  
"He's got a point. Everyone - thank you so much. We'll see you in the morning at  
seven for breakfast." He nodded to his agents, who escorted him to the elevator  
with Nina while the rest of the crowd dispersed.  
  
***  
  
Josh leaned against the dining room wall with his eyes closed. Finally, finally  
he was alone, and he could begin to absorb Sam's offer.  
  
Yes, he'd allowed himself to hope - but to expect it, outright, was something he  
hadn't dared to dream. White House Chief of Staff.  
  
Leo.  
  
His hands trembled as he thought back on the myriad tasks Leo performed every  
day without getting so much as a wrinkle in his immaculate suits. "I can't do  
it," he whispered to himself. "I can't be Leo."  
  
"No, but you can be Josh."  
  
The unexpected voice startled him, making him jump. "Donna, Jesus, don't do  
that!" he sputtered, holding his hand over his heart. He peered around the baby  
grand piano and found Donna sitting on the bench, her hand caressing the ivory  
keys in respectful silence. "You've been here all this time?"  
  
"I didn't want to go to bed. I needed to think." She looked up at him. Mascara  
had pooled beneath her eyes from the half-dozen times she'd cried for joy. Her  
lipstick was gone, and her blush was streaked with tears.  
  
She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.  
  
"I need to think, too," Josh said, sitting next to her and plunking out the  
first few notes of "Heart and Soul."  
  
"Yuck, don't." Donna closed the lid, then reached for Josh's hand and held it in  
hers. "I meant it. You can't be Leo, but you can be Josh."  
  
"I'm just not sure how much good a 'Josh' will be," he said. He tilted his head  
to one side. "I could use a good Deputy," he said. "Want to work for the  
second-most-powerful man in the nation?"  
  
"I already do, Josh," Donna replied, holding her chin up a little more. "Matt  
asked me to be his Chief of Staff."  
  
"Wow."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Josh pondered the idea for a moment. "So you'll be at the O.E.O.B. That's not  
too far away from my office."  
  
"My office will be closer than you think. Sam wants Matt to office in the White  
House."  
  
His laughter surprised him, coming from deep in his chest. "Where the hell will  
they get an office for Matt in the White House?" he demanded. "We couldn't fit a  
hamster cage in there by the end of the Bartlet administration!"  
  
"I told Sam that Matt's office should adjoin the Oval."  
  
Very funny.  
  
"Matt's not getting my office."  
  
"I'm just saying..." Suddenly she stopped talking and threw her arms around his  
neck. She kissed him, hard, for a long, long time.  
  
He didn't feel inclined to question his good fortune.  
  
Donna broke the kiss and got up, her fingers trailing along Josh's jawline.  
"Don't forget where we had our first kiss, Josh. Piano bench, the St. Germain in  
Dallas, the night Sam got the nomination."  
  
"It won't be our last, will it?"  
  
Damn, he sounded like a teenager.  
  
She smiled at him, the smile that always turned his knees to oatmeal and removed  
every drop of saliva from his mouth. "That depends," she responded cryptically.  
  
"Depends on...?" he asked, his mouth all but hanging open.  
  
"Whether Sam wins the election. So do a job, Josh, okay?" She patted him on the  
cheek, then turned and walked toward her room.  
  
Josh sat for a long time on the bench. He wanted to buy the bench. Hell, throw  
the piano in there, too. And the hotel. And the sweaty, smelly hellhole that was  
Dallas in the summer.  
  
Because, come what may, Sam Seaborn was going to be the next President of the  
United States.  
  
***   
Part Four  
  



	4. 4

***   
September   
Manchester   
***  
  
One night. It was going to come down to one night.  
  
Matt had already debated the manly, bland replacement for departing  
Vice-President Atkinson. Assistant Treasury Secretary Christopher Dickinson  
might as well have come from Central Casting - taller than Matt, broader through  
the shoulders, an athlete, a father who was soon to become a grandfather.  
Dickinson had managed to mention his wife and children in answers to questions  
about everything from health care to farm subsidy bills. Josh had to be sent out  
of the auditorium because he kept laughing.  
  
Analysis of the Vice-Presidential debate was so polarized along partisan lines  
that it meant nothing, changed nothing. Conservative Republicans made  
thinly-veiled homophobic "family values" remarks and talked about a  
Constitutional amendment to allow government sponsorship of religion. Democrats  
feared that third-party candidate Jeffrey Sawyer could cause Sam to lose the  
election unless many people who'd never voted took a sudden interest in  
politics. Get rid of Sawyer before the Presidential debate, the D.N.C. told the  
Seaborn for America staff - and by staff, they meant Josh.  
  
"Put me in, coach," Josh told Sam, and, despite some raised eyebrows, he was  
allowed to play hardball.  
  
Josh began by sparking a massive "Get Out the Vote" campaign. C.J.'s  
entertainment connections proved to be a godsend, and everything from college  
rallies to free concerts provided ample opportunity for young voters to try  
their hand at "overthrowing" the government. The same young people who had been  
attracted to Jeffrey Sawyer's message of self-preservation met with "the best  
and the brightest," and, appropriately, began to see the light. Strike one.  
  
He arranged "The Attack of the Killer Ex-Wives" in the form of Andrea Wyatt, now  
Governor of New Jersey and an outspoken advocate of women's rights, and Amy  
Gardner, who was scheduled to speak at the United Nations during her visit to  
the States. Everywhere Jeffrey Sawyer spoke, Amy or Andrea was there, insisting  
that his position that U.S. neutrality toward the brutalization of women was  
simply "respect for cultural integrity" was nothing more than dangerous  
misogyny. Strike two.  
  
Josh then fired a fastball at the heart of the International Party itself,  
courtesy of information that came to him by way of a citizens' advocacy group in  
North Carolina. The group, led by an up-and-coming public defender by the name  
of Charlie Young, discovered that an overseas corporation run by a distant  
relative of May Heckart Schiller had sent up a Zurich bank account for Jeffrey  
Sawyer.  
  
Three strikes for Jeffrey Sawyer. Batter up.  
  
If neutralizing Jeffrey Sawyer had been the playoff game, then tonight's  
Presidential debate in Boston was the World Series. Sam's numbers rose after  
Sawyer was eliminated, but the polling was still too close for comfort. The  
debate was going to weigh heavily. Josh had played less of a role in the  
preparation than he wished, but he could hardly complain when Debate Camp was  
held at the farm in Manchester and he knew that Sam was getting the best advice  
that could be had.  
  
Retired Admiral Percy Fitzwallace. Surgeon General Millicent Griffith, who had  
managed to survive four years of Schiller by keeping her head down and her ideas  
private, waiting for the next Democratic President. United States ambassadors to  
foreign nations. Cabinet members, state officials, D.N.C. chairs. And, of  
course, for economic advice Sam could turn to no one else but Jed Bartlet.  
  
Despite the headache he got from the combination of brandy fumes and math, Josh  
enjoyed sitting in the study while Bartlet held court on capitalism, the current  
economic state in America, and global economic patterns. He loved watching  
Bartlet make a point that Sam suddenly understood, the way both men's eyes lit  
up. He loved when Bartlet tried to bait Toby with a complicated question that  
Toby would easily answer. He even loved when Bartlet turned to him and said,  
"You don't understand three words of this, do you, Josh?"  
  
The little digs didn't matter. He was doing this thing that he loved, and he was  
with the people he admired most in the world, and he knew in his heart that Sam  
was going to mop the floor with President Schiller in the debate.  
  
Because of his bad behavior at Matt's debate, Josh was banned from the drive to  
Boston, Senior Political Director or no. Sam took only Nina, Matt, and an  
intern. "I'll feel better knowing that you're watching somewhere...else," he'd  
said as Josh stood next to the car with his hands on his hips, scowling.  
  
So it was coming down to this one night, and Boston seemed very far away.  
  
Josh stood with his arms folded atop the fence, watching two border collies make  
a perimeter check around the sheep pen. He wasn't a fan of sheep, or of being  
outside on a chilly autumn evening, but he couldn't stay in the house for one  
more minute. All the "Bartlet girls" were there with their husbands - Zoey had  
carried on her mother's tradition of finding a charming, brilliant divinity  
student and wooing him away from the Church - and C.J. was staying at the  
carriage house with Toby.  
  
It hurt to be around all the happy people, so Josh was glad when the sheer  
number of visitors meant that he was housed with the Secret Service agents in  
the "bunker." He looked over in that direction, hunching his shoulders as a gust  
of wind tickled him.  
  
***  
  
Bartlet watched Josh shiver in the night wind. "Abbey said to bring you this,"  
he said as he walked carefully up the gravel path. He handed Josh a well-worn  
leather jacket. "I think you had this on my first campaign."  
  
"I think I did." Josh smiled as Bartlet helped him put the coat on. "This is a  
little surreal," he commented.  
  
Bartlet patted him on the shoulder. "You'll be doing this for Sam, soon enough,  
if you're not already."  
  
"Sam actually doesn't like for me to touch his clothes. He says I exude  
wrinkles." Josh blinked as he looked from Bartlet's face to the night sky. "I  
should be there."  
  
"Believe it or not, Josh, I said I thought you should go. But I got overruled."  
Bartlet smiled, leaning a little on the cane he used for balance. "Are you lost  
in thought, or may I join you?" He didn't wait for an answer, but sat down  
carefully on a tree stump while Josh leaned back against the fence. "I'm sorry  
that Donna couldn't be here. But someone has to mind the store, and she's the  
only one of you that's not going mad over the debate." It was true. Donna had  
beenthe calm center of the storm, so sure that Sam was going to emerge  
victorious that she had scoffed at the need for a Debate Camp.  
  
Josh set his jaw and nodded. Months of campaign stops where Donna was on one  
side of the country with Matt and Josh was on the other with Sam had reduced  
their communication to e-mails and phone calls made in airport lobbies and  
highway rest stops. Bartlet knew that Josh's 49th birthday had come and gone,  
spent sulking at the motel coffee shop in Bay Minette, Alabama.  
  
"You've probably been getting a lot of advice about Donna," he said, noticing  
that Josh's posture slumped at the mention of her name. "So I won't go there  
tonight. What I do want to talk to you is the job you're about to have, and  
it'll take a while. Do you mind?"  
  
"We'll miss the debate," Josh said.  
  
Bartlet waved his hand. "Nah, they'll come get us. Besides, I'd rather torture  
you than watch Sam kick Schiller's ass. That's so easy, it's not even a  
contest."  
  
"Okay," Josh said, tipping his head back.  
  
There were a dozen expressions competing for room on Josh's face. His mouth was  
turned down, and his eyes were dark and sad. "What are you thinking, right now?"  
Bartlet asked.  
  
"Lots of things," Josh said, shrugging. "All the stuff that could trip us up in  
the end, trying to predict what's next and dealing with it before it happens.  
Keeping it off of Sam's plate so he can concentrate on the important issues."  
  
"Those are all good things. Leo did those for me, and I never knew about them  
until they were over - just as Sam won't really understand everything you've  
done for him until he's a private citizen again. I just wish I'd had more time,  
after the administration ended, to show Leo how much I appreciated him."  
  
"He knew." It was a whisper, a blessing.  
  
Bartlet nodded as he blinked the bitter tears back. Now wasn't the time for  
mourning Leo. "Sam's going to be the busiest man in the world, and it's likely  
that he won't have the chance to demonstrate his appreciation until his term's  
done. But we were talking a couple of days ago, and I asked him to do me a  
favor."  
  
"A favor?" Josh asked, looking utterly confused.  
  
"You see, I've been troubled ever since Leo died - there was a debt that I  
couldn't repay, because he was gone so quickly. So I asked Sam if he'd mind if I  
kept an eye on you, the way Leo would have done, and it turns out Sam was  
already thinking about that, about finding ways to lessen the burden."  
  
"It's not a burden," Josh protested. "It's a privilege. I don't just believe in  
the message - I believe in the man. And anything I can do to help him govern is  
a mitzvah. A duty that's also a joy."  
  
That earned him a smile. "You are so like him, Josh. As many times as I've  
wanted to drop-kick your smirking face into another zip code, I've always  
marveled at your spirit. You've never let tragedy stop you, just as he never let  
it stop him, and instead of wallowing in grief or self-pity you each turned  
your situations around and used them to help the whole of humankind. And neither  
of you gave yourselves enough credit for doing it."  
  
With just the light from the starlit sky, Bartlet could still see color rising  
on Josh's face. Couldn't take a compliment. Just like Leo.  
  
One of the collies trotted over, looking from one man to the other in hopes of  
getting some attention. Josh sat cross-legged on the ground and scratched behind  
the dog's ears. He seemed glad to focus on something else, to avoid Bartlet's  
gaze. "Does Sam...do you...think I'm going to lose it under stress, the way I  
did in 2000? Is that why you're worried about this 'burden?'"  
  
"Josh, no." Horrified, Bartlet put his hand over his heart. "You've come so far  
since then. That's not what we mean at all."  
  
Josh let the dog lick his face a few times, then leaned against the fence with  
his legs outstretched, the collie settling down beside him with his head on  
Josh's thigh. "Okay," Josh said quietly, his hand coming to rest on the dog's  
head.  
  
"We just want to spare you as much heartache as possible. God knows you've seen  
enough." He had to stop, bowing his head for a moment. How he loved this man,  
this troubled, troublesome man. "And we don't want anything to happen to you  
again, Josh. It hurt too much when we almost lost you."  
  
Abbey's voice, cutting through the anesthetic fog. You have to focus, Jed.  
There's something I have to tell you. Josh was shot, honey, and it's serious.  
Yes. He might not make it. He could die.  
  
The stricken, sick look in Leo's eyes. C.J., barely holding it together. Sam's  
waxwork pallor on the morning shows. Toby, haunting the hospital corridors,  
surrounded by a miasma of self-recrimination.  
  
Donna's wraithlike presence, keeping Death at bay with nothing more than love.  
Abbey found her late that night, sobbing her heart out in a closet, and had her  
brought to Bartlet's room so they could pray together. Fervent, painful prayers.  
Please, God, not Josh, please don't let him die, please, please, it's not right,  
it's not right...  
  
Josh shifted, pulling his knees close to his chest and resting his forehead on  
his crossed arms. The dog whimpered and nuzzled his elbow.  
  
"I don't mean to bring up painful memories, Josh. Forgive me." He reached out  
and put his hand on Josh's head, just as he had in the recovery room. "But just  
in case Sam's elected, and just in case he's so busy letting you run the country  
that he forgets to tell you - I want to make sure you understand just how much  
he loves you. Because I loved Leo that much, and..." His voice gave out, leaving  
the pale gray cloud of his breath hanging silently in the air.  
  
There was a creak of leather as Josh got up. He held his hand out to Bartlet,  
who grasped it tightly, then with unexpected swiftness Josh leaned over and  
embraced him. Grateful, affectionate, still a little dazzled after all these  
years and all these experiences. As loving as a son.  
  
Leo, shoving Josh into the tiny Manchester office. This is the son of an old  
friend, and he's brilliant. He'll make you the President. Hire the guy, wouldya,  
Jed?  
  
"Jed?" It was Abbey, standing a few feet away. Still, always, his beautiful  
firebrand. "The debate's going to start in a couple of minutes."  
  
Josh backed away, straightening up, trying to disguise the sentiments playing  
out across his mercurial face. "I gotta see this. Aren't you coming?"  
  
He didn't have the heart, not just yet, to remind himself of what was so far in  
his past. "In a minute. I'm going to sit and think for a bit."  
  
"Not too long, old man," Abbey said softly. She turned to Josh. "I can't see for  
crap out here in the dark - may I?" She put her arm through his, making him  
think he was supporting her instead of the other way around. "This good-looking  
fellow will see me home, since you're indisposed. But don't be long."  
  
He just needed a minute to send a message up...there. Wherever Leo was, wherever  
his indomitable spirit hovered. "He's gonna do just fine, Leo. He's gonna do  
just fine."  
  
Not really an answer, the sudden warmth, the surge of strength that let him walk  
back to the house at a brisker pace than normal. But it was enough. Oh, yes, it  
was enough.  
  
***   
October   
New York City   
***  
  
It wasn't so much being beaten by Sam Seaborn that had made President Schiller  
turn mean in the final weeks of the campaign - it was that Sam had beaten him  
while being polite, even deferential, and utterly, completely professional.  
  
Suddenly, campaign ads went from simple, homespun messages about hearth and  
family to statements from a long-forgotten Princeton roommate saying that Sam  
had smoked pot at a party. Sam Seaborn, friend of a prostitute, complete with  
the ancient photograph. Sam Seaborn, dating his boss' daughter while working in  
the White House.  
  
Petty as the sudden smear campaign was, as much as Sam - and even Nina - found  
it amusing, it pissed C.J. off so much that she decided to do something about it  
on the air. She knew exactly who to have on as a guest, too.  
  
Because the only person more pissed off than C.J. was Toby.  
  
Half a floor at the Plaza was taken up with the Bartlet and Seaborn entourages,  
who had come to town for what Matt called "the floor show." C.J. and Toby were  
coming over for a late drink after the interview.  
  
***  
  
C.J. and Toby were going to go to the Plaza after the interview, and, with luck,  
they'd get back to her apartment before sunrise.  
  
Ah, the vampire life.  
  
She took her place in the familiar chair - the one she would be leaving behind  
if Sam won, although she hadn't bothered to announce the offer to NBC - and  
smiled as Toby put on his mike and submitted to the application of another coat  
of powder to his head. "You ready?"  
  
"You bet." He would look relaxed to any normal viewer, but C.J. saw the coiled,  
serpentine strength beneath the professorial exterior. He pulled his jacket  
down, sitting carefully on it so that it wouldn't ride up during the interview,  
then waited as C.J. introduced him.  
  
"My guest tonight is the author of 'An Assembly of Words' and 'Dead Right,' and  
the co-author, along with former President Jed Bartlet, of 'In This White  
House.' It's my pleasure to introduce former White House Communications Director  
Toby Ziegler."  
  
"Thank you, C.J. It's a pleasure to be here."  
  
Those were the last polite words out of his mouth.  
  
***  
  
Nina stared, aghast, at the television. "Is he allowed to say that?"  
  
"...despicable acts of a desperate man..."  
  
Josh high-fived Matt.  
  
"...repeated statements indicating, at best, a degree of homophobia previously  
left unspoken in the Republican Party..."  
  
Toby was on a roll as only Toby could be. "...educational policies whose  
outcomes look sound on paper but in practice will do nothing more than to ensure  
a permanent underclass..."  
  
Nina remembered Sam saying something like that a few weeks earlier. She stole a  
glance at her husband, who seemed to be enjoying the program with a little more  
glee than might be considered seemly. Then again, they were sitting in a room  
with the Bartlets, Matt, Gary, Donna, and Josh. Who among them wouldn't be  
having a wonderful time watching Toby, master chef, carving up the Schiller  
Presidency?  
  
"...an attempt to overthrow the most basic of Constitutional rights, that of  
freedom of religion, the bastion of our nation, the cornerstone of our  
democracy, the reason my father's father and the Founding Fathers all made the  
heartwrenching decision to leave their homes and seek out this new and better  
land..."  
  
C.J. wasn't saying anything, really, just asking a couple of brief questions and  
letting Toby run with his ideas. Nina recognized the strategy now, even though  
she was still vaguely uncomfortable with it. But, dammit, Schiller had gone on  
television and called her husband a panderer and a traitor. It had taken every  
ounce of her considerable will to smile during interviews and say that there  
wasn't a person in the world who didn't have a few skeletons in the closet, and  
that her husband was surely no exception.  
  
What she really wanted to do was punch Schiller's lights out.  
  
No.  
  
"...these inexcusable, low blows aimed at the greatest heart, the finest mind,  
the most loyal and loving man I've ever known must not - shall not - go  
unanswered.  
  
What she really wanted to do was...exactly what Toby was doing.  
  
***  
  
They escaped the studio, taking the ashen-faced Andrew with them, ignoring the  
ringing phones and the horrified, if secretly amused, expressions of the crew.  
Someone shouted something about ratings going through the roof. Someone else  
shouted something about Schiller's people demanding retractions, equal air time,  
and Toby's head on a platter.  
  
C.J.'s stature, as much as her fame, got them a cab on the busy street, and  
minutes later they were in the lobby of the Plaza, explaining to the Secret  
Service agents that Andrew had already been vetted and was surely on someone's  
list.  
  
"I'm on someone's list, all right," Andrew mumbled, but he wasn't completely  
suppressing his grin.  
  
Donna, still the least recognizable face in the party, met them in front of the  
elevator and rode up with them. "I haven't seen Josh look like that since  
Ritchie tanked in the debate."  
  
C.J. threw her head back and laughed. "How's Sam?"  
  
"Pacing the room, saying he's going to kill Toby with his bare hands."  
  
"Me?" Toby put his hands out in an exaggerated "who, me?" gesture. "All I did  
was exercise my right to freedom of speech while it's still a right."  
  
"There's your sound bite," C.J. told him as the agents parted to let them out  
into the hallway. She knocked sharply on the door of the Presidential Suite and  
Abbey answered.  
  
"Way to go, tiger!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around Toby. "We have some  
raw meat for you over there in the cage."  
  
Before Toby had a chance to respond, Josh shouted that Schiller was on the news.  
"He's in the Mural Room! You have got to see this!"  
  
The President of the United States was turning redder by the instant. "Even  
assuming that Mr. Ziegler has the right to make such scurrilous remarks on  
television, I'm calling the technique of the so-called 'interview' into  
question."  
  
"Why is that, Mr. President?" asked an off-screen reporter.  
  
"Because it's just a way to get free air time for the Democratic campaign."  
  
"I still hate this whole 'I won't say the other guy's name thing,'" Bartlet  
commented.  
  
"Well, Mr. President," said another reporter, "we're interviewing you in the  
Mural Room of the White House, which could also be construed as gaining free air  
time for your campaign."  
  
"The difference is that, in this case, the interviewee and the journalist aren't  
husband and wife."  
  
Toby grabbed the remote from Josh's limp fingers and snapped the television off.  
  
"Wow," Sam said, steepling his fingers together. "He's really losing it. That's  
way, way out of line."  
  
"Can he just make stuff up like that?" Donna asked, frowning at the blank  
screen.  
  
C.J. realized what it must be like to take a punch in the gut. She looked at  
Toby, whose expression was a comical mixture of dismay and embarrassment, then  
at Bartlet.  
  
"I think you're busted, guys," he said mildly.  
  
The room went suddenly, ominously silent. C.J. closed her eyes, hoping against  
hope that the earth would open up and swallow her whole. Or, barring such a  
miracle, that Josh would at least close his mouth. She turned slowly and fixed  
her gaze on Gary.  
  
"It wasn't me," Gary said as he adjusted his glasses. "C.J., really. It wasn't  
me."  
  
"Were you in on this?" Matt demanded.  
  
"I made her a suit, that's all. I didn't say anything to anyone."  
  
"He's telling the truth," Donna said, staring intently at C.J. "I pestered him  
for a week to tell me why you needed it, and he just kept saying that it was for  
the interview at the farm." She grinned, triumph brightening her eyes. "I was  
right! I knew it! You got married that week."  
  
Toby, who had been gnawing his lower lip in silence, nodded.  
  
"It was a lovely little ceremony," Abbey said quickly. "Ainsley Hayes did the  
honors--"  
  
"Ainsley Hayes?" chorused Matt and Sam.  
  
"You got married by a Republican?" Josh asked on the heels of their dismayed  
question.  
  
"She's a J.P. now. She got married a couple of years ago and had a baby, and she  
wanted to slow down a bit. I thought she did very well." Abbey beamed at Toby.  
"She tried to get Toby to vow to obey C.J. It almost made up for the wedding  
pie."  
  
Donna blinked rapidly. "I...so do not want to know about wedding pie." She  
turned a baleful eye on Josh. "And don't you dare ask if it was cherry pie,  
either."  
  
He didn't seem to hear her, although Bartlet snickered and even Toby managed a  
smile. Instead, he looked down at the floor. "You didn't tell us. It's been  
almost a year, and you didn't tell us. We weren't invited."  
  
"I wasn't invited to your wedding, Josh!" C.J. exclaimed, feeling heat rise in  
her face. She grimaced. "Sorry, Donna."  
  
Donna shrugged. "No, it's okay. I wasn't invited to his wedding, either."  
  
"Hey!" Josh cried. "Since when did this turn into a round of beating me up over  
something that happened a million years ago?"  
  
"Four years ago," Toby said to the ceiling.  
  
"Whatever!"  
  
"It happened after Toby had the heart attack that turned out to be  
gastroenteritis," C.J. said, trying to keep her voice down. "I couldn't get  
anyone to tell me how he was because I wasn't next of kin. So we got married.  
It's no big deal."  
  
"Excuse me?" Toby asked, arching an eyebrow.  
  
"No, no, I didn't mean that..."  
  
"But you live in different cities!" Nina piped up.  
  
"Which is best for everyone involved. Toby and I are happy with the situation -  
why aren't you?" She wanted to cry. She would cry, if someone didn't tell her...  
  
"It's all right." Gary. Soft-spoken, reaching out to fold her up in his arms. "I  
think everyone in this room understands what it's like to be in an  
unconventional romance."  
  
Of all of them, Gary was the easiest target, and he'd borne more than his fair  
share of abuse in the press. His word on the subject was inviolate. It was more  
than enough to bring the arguments to a halt.  
  
"I'm sorry," Donna said, displacing Gary so she could hug C.J. tightly. "I'm  
really happy for you. It was just...a weird way to find out."  
  
"Exactly," Josh agreed, although he still looked more than a little shocked. He,  
too, embraced C.J. After Josh came Andrew, Sam and Nina, and Matt, all offering  
belated but sincere best wishes.  
  
"I was there, too, you know, sort of off to one side and stuff," Toby  
admonished.  
  
Laughing, Nina threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. "You got  
the good end of the deal - you expect congratulations, too?"  
  
"Now that the cat's out of the bag, it wouldn't bother me too much," he said,  
cutting a glance at Sam.  
  
Sam. C.J.'s heartbeat still quickened every time she allowed herself to believe  
that Sam, her Sam, Toby's Sam, would shortly belong to the entire country. She  
knew, with intuition born of long, hard days and nights fought by his side, that  
Sam would always retain a streak of hero-worship where Toby was concerned. She  
adored him for it.  
  
She adored him even more when he took a few long steps across the room and  
grabbed Toby in a fierce embrace. She sensed the tension leaving Toby's body -  
for all his bluster, he couldn't bear to have Sam angry with him for even ten  
minutes - and smiled when Sam whispered his thanks for Toby's breathtaking,  
passionate defense.  
  
Toby smiled, fully, with dimples. "It was over the top, what I said tonight. And  
Schiller's right - I shouldn't have taken an interview with C.J. I'll apologize  
if you want me to."  
  
Sam shook his head. "Don't you dare. Just - make sure the marriage is legal,  
okay?"  
  
"It's certainly been consummated," Bartlet said under his breath. Abbey poked  
him in the ribs. "Well, it's true. They didn't come out for two days."  
  
"We ran out of pie." Toby quirked an eyebrow at Sam, who barked out a sharp  
laugh in response. "Come on, C.J. I think we've provided enough entertainment  
for one night."  
  
"Good night, everyone," she said, hoping she would always remember the delight  
on the faces of her dearest friends. As she and Toby walked arm in arm toward  
her apartment, she was so giddy, so euphoric, that she was practically skipping.  
  
"What?" Toby whispered in her ear.  
  
"I won't be able to call him 'Spanky' anymore," she giggled.  
  
Toby stopped walking and stared at her. "You are a very, very strange woman," he  
said, but he had a sweetly amused smile on his face as he said it.  
  
"Seriously! I mean, it never really occurred to me before. I can't exactly call  
him "President Spanky! God, Toby, it's so wonderful!"  
  
He tugged at his beard, regarding her with warmth and bewilderment in his eyes.  
Then he leaned forward, put his hands on her shoulders, and kissed her for five  
minutes, right there on the steps of F.A.O. Schwartz, while a crowd watched and  
applauded.  
  
***   
Part Five   
  



	5. 5

***   
November - Election Night   
Washington, D.C.   
***  
  
Sam spent the evening mingling with campaign workers, posing for photos, talking  
to enthusiastic volunteers. Once in a while he would glance up at a monitor as  
results came in from east to west. Then he would look over at Josh, whose face  
was bathed in the glow of a dozen televisions as he watched with rapt attention.  
All around him were excited voices, but Josh's attention was focused on a  
constant crawl of locations and numbers. A few times during the evening he would  
drag his gaze away from the screens and search the crowd for Sam, his eyes full  
of awe.  
  
The electoral vote was turning out to be in favor of the Seaborn/Skinner ticket.  
Sam kept looking at the board, watching state after state turn blue.  
Unbelievable. A sea of blue in parts of the country that had overwhelmingly  
elected Schiller four years earlier was attributable to Josh's infectious energy  
and ability to strategize a situation in painstaking detail. Watching Josh plan  
a campaign sweep was like watching a jeweler cut a perfect six-carat diamond.  
  
"Senator, may I please get a picture?" asked a college-age volunteer, holding a  
camera and smiling shyly. Sam waved someone over to take their photograph  
together, then autographed the young man's "Seaborn for America" t-shirt with a  
heavy black marker. He never tired of the exuberance of the people who'd  
traveled with the team, the ones who made the phone calls and canvassed  
neighborhoods, who arranged van pools and helped sort out voter registration  
difficulties. No matter what happened tonight, he'd never forget that hundreds  
of total strangers had given their precious time on behalf of his ideals.  
  
Leo had taught him that.  
  
"We got Texas!" Donna's delighted cry brought about a fresh round of applause  
and cheers. Last-minute campaigning from former Vice-President John Hoynes -  
also courtesy of Josh - had given them the electoral votes that put them  
tantalizingly close to an early victory.  
  
Nina cheered as ardently as anyone else, but as state after state went to Sam,  
her face grew ever whiter until her dark brown eyes stood out like topaz against  
the ivory of her skin. She clutched C.J.'s arm as a blue light went on behind  
Texas, looking for all the world as if she might faint. Sam rushed up to her and  
put his arm around her waist. "Are you okay?"  
  
"How can you stand it?" she whispered through clenched teeth. "I can't even  
breathe."  
  
He had forgotten that this was the first election in which the stakes were  
personal for Nina. And what a maiden voyage it was, with a win meaning a move  
into the White House and living with eyes on the nation focused on her. So much  
to ask, so willingly and lovingly given.  
  
"I love you," he whispered in her ear. That, at least, brought spots of color to  
her cheeks. Sam peeled Nina's fingers, one by one, from C.J.'s reddening forearm  
and kept her hand fast in his.  
  
"I'm glad, because I voted for you. Oh, I'm sorry," Nina said to C.J. as if  
becoming aware that she'd used her as a pincushion.  
  
She laughed, the silvery sound cutting easily through the din of two hundred  
people in a ballroom. "It's okay. I've had worse on election night. It'll be  
over in an hour - sooner, if we get early results from California and they go  
our way."  
  
Our way. Sam grinned at the thought. "Have we seen exit numbers?"  
  
"Josh is calling Joey Lucas, and I'm calling...a few favors from here and there.  
We'll know in an hour or so."  
  
Only an hour. It was possible - probable - that he would be the incoming  
President. So soon. Like a train coming at him through a tunnel.  
  
He shook off the rising nervousness. He was ready. Matt was ready. He truly had  
a staff to remember, the next generation of "the best and the brightest," and  
everyone was working toward a common goal. Focused.  
  
Nina shivered a little. It was instinct, second nature, to hold her closer, to  
rub his palm along her arm. She looked up at him. "I'm so proud," she murmured.  
"I can't believe this is really happening."  
  
"That's how I felt in '98. I knew, but I didn't completely process it until days  
later, when Toby gave me ten pages of inaugural address to write."  
  
He remembered it all. The thrill of seeing his name on stationery with a picture  
of the White House. The inane grins they shared at the most mundane tasks. The  
first time C.J. lip-synched to "The Jackal." The fact that they were stunned  
enough to enjoy meetings that would later seem stultifying.  
  
Getting their names. Princeton, Flamingo. Oscar the Grouch, for Toby. Josh,  
bristling at Motormouth. Josh again, on his first day back after the shooting,  
standing with the President's arm around his shoulders as Ron gave him a new  
name: Phoenix.  
  
That memory jolted him back to the present. He leaned backwards, suddenly  
lightheaded. He'd been Princeton for so, so long. But that was going to change.  
  
POTUS.  
  
"Oh, God," he breathed. Nina gave him an anxious look, and he tried to muster up  
a smile for her. "It's okay. I'm good."  
  
She raised an eyebrow and he kissed her on the forehead, burying his face in her  
hair for a moment. It was likely to be one of the last times tonight they would  
be allowed even that small privacy.  
  
"Here it comes," Josh said. His whole body was a tightly coiled spring. He ran  
one hand through his hair and with the other he turned the volume as far up as  
he could. "Quiet, quiet!" he tried to yell, but his voice was failing him.  
  
Toby stepped in. "Shut the hell up!" he bellowed.  
  
"Polls on the West Coast are closed," said the announcer, "and even without the  
total from California there is a clear winner in the Electoral College. We are  
calling the 2010 Presidential Election for California Senator Samuel Seaborn."  
  
Mad rush of blood through the ears. Pandemonium in the room. Cheers, screams,  
champagne. Tears. Holding Nina, kissing her, hoping the passion in his lips  
could even begin to thank her for what she'd sacrificed. Flashbulbs. Toby, one  
arm around C.J. and the other around Donna, all three of them laughing and  
crying at once.  
  
Find Josh.  
  
Sam scanned the massive crowd. No sign of unruly hair, no thousand-watt smile.  
Everyone but the one who put him here, who believed it could be done and let  
nothing get in his way. "Where's Josh?" he asked Donna as she wrapped her arms  
around his neck and held on for dear life.  
  
"Upstairs, I think - C.J., where did Josh go?"  
  
"Media's in the hall. He's probably dealing with them," C.J. reminded Sam as she  
kissed him on the cheek. "They'll be breaking down the doors in about ten  
seconds."  
  
"I want to talk to Josh," Sam called over the heads of the people who were  
descending upon him. "Find him."  
  
C.J. gave Donna a push, dislodging her from Toby's embrace. "Go."  
  
"I'll just..." Donna pointed toward the door. Her finger shook, and she looked  
absolutely dazed. "Go. Find him."  
  
"Is she okay?" Nina asked.  
  
"Sure she is." C.J. didn't sound convinced. "If she's not back in ten minutes,  
Toby, you go find her. I'm going to stay here with Sam, just in case there's a  
media issue. Matt - over here!"  
  
Media issue didn't even come close to describing what happened next. It was a  
feeding frenzy the likes of which Sam hadn't seen since the first Bartlet  
election. Maybe not even then. He managed to drape his arm around Nina and smile  
broadly as the cameras pointed at him.  
  
"As you can imagine," he began, "things are a little loud right now, but I'll do  
my best for you. First and foremost, I want to thank the voters of the United  
States for their extraordinary support. And my good friend, soon-to-be Vice  
President Matthew Skinner - oh, here he is." He held his hand out to Matt, who  
shook it before enfolding Sam in a hug. "We haven't had a chance to talk to each  
other since we found out just now, so please bear with us."  
  
Laughing, Matt kissed Nina on the cheek and stood on the other side of her. "Did  
you say thank you?" he asked Sam.  
  
"I started with that, actually. And now, I'd like to thank my opponent,  
President Gregory Schiller, for a well-run campaign that kept me on my toes."  
  
"Has he called?" asked a reporter.  
  
"I...I honestly don't know. If the phone's ringing in here, there's no way I'd  
be able to hear it." Laughter. It relaxed him, let him give a genuine smile to  
the assembled journalists. Flashes went off again and again as he held Matt's  
hand up in the air. "Have you seen Josh?" Sam asked out of the corner of his  
mouth. Matt gave his head a slight shake.  
  
"What are you going to do with the rest of your evening?" was another question.  
  
"Well, I'm going to start by sitting down for the first time since I drove to  
the polls this morning. I think food's a good idea, too. But right this minute?"  
He turned his head, taking in the streamers, the dancing, the music and cheers.  
"I think I'm going to drink this in for a little bit. How about a press  
conference tomorrow, eight a.m.?"  
  
"Yes, sir," agreed the reporters as a group as they disbanded, eager to  
interview other campaign staffers.  
  
Sam watched them wander off, microphones and video cameras in hand. Before he  
had a chance to ask if anyone had found Josh, Ginger ran up to him with a cell  
phone in her hand. "It's President Schiller," she said. "It's the...well, you  
know."  
  
Wow. This was going to be hard.  
  
"Where can I take this call? Is there any place that's not, you know, totally  
over the edge?"  
  
Ginger took him by the hand and led him to the women's bathroom.  
  
"You are kidding me."  
  
"This one's off-limits to anyone but Nina." She patted him on the arm. "You did  
well, boss. I even voted for you."  
  
"Thanks. I think." He waved her off and leaned against the sink. He was taking  
the concession call from the outgoing President of the United States, standing  
in the women's restroom with his back against a sink.  
  
Definitely surreal.  
  
"Mr. President? This is Sam Seaborn."  
  
"I'm sorry, Senator - the President was called away on an emergency. This is  
Saundra Hoffman, his personal assistant. The President wishes to offer you his  
congratulations and to tell you that he concedes the 2010 elections. Thank you  
for taking my call."  
  
"Thank you, Ms. Hoffman." He flipped the phone shut. Wow. Not so hard.  
  
Toby was waiting for him when he came out of the bathroom. "That's the ladies'  
room, there, Sam."  
  
"Look, Ginger put me in there to take Schiller's call - although it wasn't  
Schiller, it was his personal assistant."  
  
"Wow. You've been elected for five minutes, and you're already getting dissed."  
  
Sam fought back the impulse to burst into hysterical laughter. Toby's face was a  
study in contrast, the grouchy mouth offset by the twinkle in his eyes. "If  
that's an omen, I'm moving to Bolivia. Has anyone seen Josh?"  
  
"I did, yes." Toby's hand went into his beard, and Sam could have sworn that he  
was masking a grin. "He was, as God is my witness, asking Donna to the Inaugural  
Ball, and by the time I finished, you know, vomiting, he'd wandered off. But  
right now you need to get to a television. Jed's going to say a few words."  
  
They strode briskly to a smaller room with a television and just enough room for  
Sam, Matt, Gary, Nina, Toby, and C.J. "Donna tried to go to the ladies' room,  
but the Secret Service stopped her," C.J. said. "So they put her in the men's  
room."  
  
"That makes as much sense as anything else I've heard in the last ten minutes."  
He focused his attention on the screen. "He looks pretty good."  
  
"Yeah - Abbey called a few minutes ago to tell us he'd be on. He's pretty perky  
tonight." C.J. turned up the volume. "Here we go."  
  
Bartlet was seated in his favorite chair with Abbey at his side. "Of course I'm  
pleased about tonight's victory. I even voted for him."  
  
Matt slapped Sam on the back. "I voted for you, too. No wonder you did so well."  
  
Gary shushed him, then everyone turned back to the former President as he spoke  
about the future President.  
  
"I met Sam Seaborn on a cold, wet day at the campaign headquarters in  
Manchester. He came in with Joshua Lyman - whose name I still hadn't quite  
mastered - and my campaign manager, Leo McGarry, said Sam would be writing for  
me. I was thinking about a thousand things then, as you can imagine, so I just  
stuck out my hand without really looking up. There was something in his voice  
when he said he was pleased to meet me...I can't quite describe it. But it made  
me look at him, and what I saw when I looked into his eyes wasn't a pretty face.  
It was a beautiful soul.  
  
"Now, that doesn't mean that I remembered his name right away, either. I used to  
get him mixed up with Toby Ziegler, if you can believe that." Toby hunched his  
shoulders and glared at the television. "But it all came together the night of  
the Illinois primary. Josh's father died unexpectedly and I saw him off at the  
airport, then I went back to the hotel to give the speech Sam had written for  
me. Those words were so powerful, so strong and magnificent, that I had to go  
track him down and talk to him. Really talk to him, for the first time.  
  
"Here he was, being congratulated by the new Democratic nominee for President,  
but his mind wasn't on the praise. It was on Josh's loss. There aren't too many  
men who wouldn't have forgotten a friend's pain, or at least set it aside. Sam  
even apologized for his lack of focus on my words - but I admired that in him  
and I told him so.  
  
"Over the years, he became a valued advisor and trusted friend. When he decided  
to move on to other things, it almost broke my heart. But I knew he was destined  
for this. The only thing to do was to let him try his wings and offer my prayers  
that he would soar."  
  
Bartlet sat forward in the chair. His face was thin, his hair almost completely  
gray, and there was a slight stiffness in his posture. None of those things  
could dim the compassion and intelligence in his eyes as he finished his remarks  
with a simple declaration.  
  
"I'm so very proud of you, Sam."  
  
Some pundits appeared on the screen, saying they'd be back after a commercial.  
Sam switched the television off, his heart too full for the speech his friends  
seemed to expect. "I'm going to find Josh," he murmured.  
  
He picked up four Secret Service agents as he started walking up and down the  
halls. Finally, one of the agents asked him what he needed. "Oh, Mr. Lyman's in  
his room."  
  
"In his room? He's just sitting up there, by himself?"  
  
"Yes, sir," the agent replied.  
  
Frowning, imagining a dozen improbable scenarios, Sam took off quickly for  
Josh's room and knocked on the door. "Josh? You there?"  
  
"Yeah. Just a minute." The door opened, showing Josh in shirt sleeves, his tie  
undone. "Did you need something?"  
  
Sam turned to the agents. "Could we have the room, please?" he asked, and after  
a quick look through the room the agents withdrew. Sam could still see their  
feet through the crack at the bottom of the door. He turned to Josh. "Are you  
okay?"  
  
Josh's hands were in front of his mouth, almost in an attitude of prayer.  
"I'm...fine," he said abently. "It was just too crowded in there, that's all."  
  
"It's a little insane." Sam sat down, motioning for Josh to take a seat in the  
other chair. "Are you coming to the party? It'll be just us and a few of the  
lead staffers, no big crowds."  
  
"In a minute. I was just thinking."  
  
"About what?"  
  
Sighing, Josh bowed his head. "I miss them."  
  
Sam was lost. "Who?"  
  
"Leo. My dad. They were the two people whose recognition I craved more than any  
others. I wanted to be like them. I wanted to do it for you."  
  
"Josh." Sam ducked, making Josh meet his eyes. "You did magnificently. There's  
no way any of this would have happened if it weren't for you."  
  
"I appreciate that. Truly. But I miss them, Sam," Josh said, his voice breaking.  
"I miss them so much."  
  
"I feel the same way." Sam let Josh pull himself together before continuing.  
"They'd have loved what you accomplished. There's not another person in America  
- hell, there's not another person on this planet who could have gotten me  
elected President. Don't let yourself forget that, ever." He stood up and  
extended his hand to Josh, who looked up at him with tears in his eyes. Sam felt  
wetness on his own face and realized that he, too, was crying.  
  
Josh tugged at Sam's hand and they embraced, holding one another tightly. "Thank  
you, Josh," Sam whispered. "Thank you for...all of it."  
  
"You're welcome." Josh took a step backwards, catching his breath, and a sudden  
smile dawned on his face like the light of a new day. He cocked his head toward  
the door. "You should get to the party."  
  
Sam nodded, reaching for the doorknob. Josh stopped him, opening the door with a  
flourish and stepping aside.  
  
"Let's go downstairs," he said softly. His voice was laden with emotion. "After  
you, Mr. President."  
  
***   
End "Beginning to Believe"  
The final chapter, "The Triumph of Principles," will be available soon.  
  
Jo and Ria - thank you. There should be more to say, and better ways to say it,  
but...nothing else will do.  
  
Feedback would be adored at Marguerite@operamail.com.  
Back to West Wing .  
  
  
  



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